The Assignment
by Katharra
Summary: Sam must write the story of his life.
1. Chapter 1

You asked us to write something for you, Ms. Higgins.  You asked us to bring you the story of our lives, to write the truth, plain and simple.  I wasn't sure what to write; the truth or a work of fiction.  If I wrote you the truth, you wouldn't believe it.  You would call me a liar and give me a failing grade, something I've never experienced before.  If I wrote you a piece of fiction, you would believe it even though not a word of it would be true. 

_I want to tell the truth.  I choose to tell the truth.  Even if you don't believe me._

Ms. Higgins had given the class the entire hour to start writing the stories of their lives.  But for at least ten minutes, Sam Winchester had sat at his desk, his pencil hovering over the blank sheet of paper in his notebook.  He kept glancing at the clock, as if that would somehow make it tick faster and release him from this awkward moment of confusion.  Normally, when given any assignment in any class and with class time allotted to work on it, Sam would be writing furiously away at the paper before him until his wrist ached.  When he was really deep in thought or working out a complex problem, he would numbly chew away at his pencil with his head down and his nose almost touching the paper. 

But today was different.  Today he was conflicted over the assignment, debating whether to tell the truth or lie.  He looked up, glancing at the other students.  Some were working away, writing, scratching out misspelled words and re-writing.  Others were doodling idly on their papers with their foreheads resting in the palms of their hands.  At least two were passed out and drooling on their sleeves.  He looked up to the front of the class where Ms. Higgins was sitting at her desk, for once relishing the silence that this assignment required.  He caught her eye and she smiled encouragingly at him.  He faked his own smile back. 

He knew that she was proud of him.  He knew that he helped to reinforce her belief in what she was doing as an educator.  He knew he was one of her favourites.  Which is what, in part, made him want to tell her the truth. 

The other part was something he wouldn't admit to himself and something he could never bring to his father or his brother. 

He set his pencil to the notebook and began writing.


	2. Perishing

_I don't remember the beginning. I've heard about it, but by the time I was old enough to understand it, that life did not belong to me. It belonged to my brother and my dad, who remembered it vividly enough to compensate for my own ignorance. My beginning started in the backseat of an old car, traveling to towns I'd never heard of and staying in tacky motels along the way._

Even though Sam would often bitch and complain to anyone who would listen, he secretly liked sitting in the backseat. It was bigger than any of the new cars, it had a comforting smell of old leather and when he was really tired, he would curl up on the seat underneath dad's worn-out and oversized jacket. As it was, he was often sitting with his scrawny legs dangling off the edge of the seat watching as much of the scenery as he could from his lower vantage point.

After spending what felt like an eternity driving on a road he didn't know the name of, past rundown towns he never heard of, they arrived at a nondescript brown motel with one row of rooms facing the parking lot, nestled between the tallest pine trees Sam had ever seen in his six years of life.

His brother opened the door for him, motioning with his thumb and telling the "Squirt" to hop on out. Sam did as asked, strapping his backpack over his shoulders and scrutinizing the motel. His dad strolled to the back of the car, popping open the trunk and throwing out duffel bags onto the ground. "Does it have a pool?" He asked his father.

John paused with his head in the trunk to give his child a look that Sam knew meant "_are you serious_?"

Dean smiled down at Sam. "Dude, you don't even know how to swim yet. And we don't have any money to buy you a set of water wings."

Sam turned away from Dean and kicked at the ground. "I would know how to swim if you'd teach me like you promised," he grumbled. It did not go unnoticed.

"Stop it," John ordered. "Dean will teach you next year, when you're a bit bigger," he added. He passed one of the duffel bags to Dean, who lumbered under its weight as he stepped into the motel room.

"Ouch," he whispered. "Dad really outdid himself on this one."

The shag carpet was a mixture of brown and orange, with wallpaper that picked up the orange hues in swirly patterns, plastered to every inch of free space and peeling in almost every corner. The small kitchenette looked like it hadn't been cleaned in half a decade, and the plastic coverings on the cupboard doors that were supposed to make them look like oak instead of cheap plywood were chipping, not to mention the few that were hanging off the hinges. The "harvest gold" bathroom was missing a few tiles and the tub was chipped. The toilet seat was a different colour from the rest of the toilet and the faucet had a constant drip. Dean was scared to look into the bedroom.

"Dad!" Dean called. His father yelled back from the open door, still rummaging through the trunk and back seat. "Dad, do we have any of that thick plastic anymore?"

John stopped what he was doing to think, then answered in the negative. "Why?"

"I think we'll need it to cover the beds so we don't catch something, if you know what I mean."

John rolled his eyes then threw another duffel bag at Dean. "It's fine," he grumbled.

"Wait till you see it," Dean grumbled back, albeit under his breath.

* * *

It was that night that John had left the boys on their own again, Sam plopped in front of the television and oblivious to Dean's agony at having nothing to do but look after his little brother. Sam had asked for Spaghetti-O's, again, but then changed his mind at the last minute and had wanted cereal, again. Dean, being the stupendous and outstanding older brother he was, conceded and let Sam have the last bit of cereal and contented himself with having the leftover Spaghetti-O's, although Sam did try to make up for this by offering him the prized toy at the bottom of the box.

It was that night that Dean, against all of his better instincts, decided to defy his father and leave Sammy alone to play arcade games in the rental office of the motel. He justified his actions out of anger at his father for leaving them again, and by reassuring himself that he was mere footsteps away from their room. How much trouble could one kid get into?

It was that night that Dean burst into the room to find a thing hovering over his brother's limp form, literally sucking the life out of him. And while Dean froze with his finger hovering over the trigger of the rifle, his father came from nowhere and blew the wretched thing away.

Dean's own shame prevented him from fully looking his father in the eye while he cradled a very confused and groggy Sam. He heard the words his father yelled at him, but they were words he was already yelling at himself. For the remaining duration of the trip, Dean had trouble speaking and especially towards Sammy.

Sammy knew something had changed between them, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Dean didn't seem to want to joke around anymore. And when Sammy was about to run off to go explore some playground by the highway rest area that was simply begging to be played on, it was Dean, not dad, who grabbed him by the shoulder and told him to wait. From then on, Dean had taken on a new authoritative role that bewildered Sam at best.

It was years later that Dean came to the chilling realization that perhaps their father had purposely left them that night, that he may have used his own children as bait. The cold, sinking feeling in his gut had changed into a raw, heated form of anger at his father, but also at himself, for not realizing it sooner.


	3. Sunshine

_Dad has a picture of my mom. He doesn't show it to us. He only brings it out when he thinks we aren't watching or when he thinks we're asleep. I was awake in the smelly motel room bed one night. Dad came home late, smelling of whisky but trying his best to be quiet while he flicked on a lamp and hung his jacket on the back of a chair. Dean was asleep in the bed next to me, snoring and sprawled out in fifty different directions. Dad sat at the 1960's formica table and brought out the picture. He rubbed his finger along the worn edges and then I think I saw him smile or cry, or both._

John could feel the eyes on him. He pocketed the picture and rubbed his face before he turned to the bed. "What are you still doing up?" He asked Sam.

Sam was resting on his side, his arm hanging over the edge. "I couldn't sleep."

John eyed his youngest who met his gaze calmly in return. "Too hot in here? You want me to turn the air conditioner on?"

Sam thought about it for a moment but answered in the negative. There was long pause between the two and Sam was no longer looking at his dad but staring at some random spot on the wallpaper past his father's head. "Why do you always look at it on this night?"

John snorted and turned away from his son. "You keeping a diary on me or something?"

"No," Sam responded. "This wasn't the night…was it?"

John stared at his son for a while before answering. "No. That was in the fall." He took a deep breath in before getting to his feet. "Get some sleep," he told Sam. He turned off the lamp beside the kitchen table and shuffled over to the couch by the tv. He settled his too-long body on the couch, covering his face with his arm and letting his legs dangle off the other end.

"Dad…" Sam started, only to be cut off by John reminding him that he gave him an order to sleep. Sam settled into the bed on his back, clasping his hands across his chest and staring at the ceiling.

"It's our anniversary," John replied to Sam's unanswered question.

* * *

Sometimes Sam thinks he can remember her voice, maybe singing him a lullaby. He asked his dad about it once; his dad snorted and gave him a rather uncharacteristic smile. "If she did, she probably sounded like a cat being run over," he replied. Sam then figured that the only reason he thought he might have remembered her voice was from associating some random television actress with his mother.

Dean never could figure out why Sam liked Growing Pains so much.

John doesn't talk about Mary much to the boys. When he does, he finds he can only say a few words before a lump begins to form in his throat and he feels the air being choked from him.

To this day, he's still not sure what attracted him to her in the first place. He wasn't exactly a charmer in those days – fresh from a tour of duty and full of testosterone and the foolish belief that he could conquer the world at 21. She was a beautiful and intelligent blonde, laughing with her girlfriends at a table in the local pub. Somehow, he caught her eye and every now and then, she would glance at him, sometimes in the middle of a hitch of laughter. Then she stood up and began walking towards him. He was struggling to think of some brilliant line, some way of flexing his muscles that would make her swoon, but the closer she got the more he felt his mouth go dry and his face flush with embarrassment. At the point she was just about at his barstool, he felt his jaw go slack and her eyes on his, and right when he was about to stammer out a weak "hi", she passed by him and it was only then that he realized she was heading to the ladies room, not to hit on him.

His face took on the brightest hue of tomato red and he furiously pushed himself back towards the bar and ordered himself another beer so he could stew in his own pity party for a while.

"Is anyone sitting here?"

He was in the middle of taking a swig and consequently, just about spit it onto her face. Instead he choked on it, which made Mary frown in concern, and while he coughed and hacked into his hand, Mary considerately whacked him on the back.

There was a stunned silence from John when he finally got his breath back. He turned to her with wide eyes. "Quite the swing you got there."

Mary took the seat that wasn't offered to her and smiled warmly. "Oh, you know. A girl's got to look out for herself these days. I'm Mary, by the way."

"John," he replied as he shook her hand, noting with surprise how strong of a handshake it was. "You, uh, come here lots?"

She studied him for a moment before nodding. "Mm-hmm. Enough to know you haven't been here for very long."

John shrugged in overacted nonchalance. "I've been away. You know, in the army. Marines, to be exact."

Mary's eyes widened. "Really? Wow, you must be super brave."

John blushed but hid it by taking another swig of beer. He turned to her, and decided that he really didn't like the way she was studying him. It made him feel self-conscious of the fact she seemed to be in more control of the situation than him. He picked at his beer label. "So, uh, can I buy you a drink?"

Mary shrugged one petite shoulder as she leaned on the bar. "You can buy me two if you can keep my attention long enough."

John laughed and signalled the bartender for another round. "That sounded like a challenge."

"It was," Mary conceded. "Tell me some fascinating story."

John racked his brain for a fascinating story that didn't involve bad humour or end with some marine drinking himself into oblivion. That really didn't leave very many…

"Tell me where you've been in the world," Mary suggested. John gratefully smiled at her.

He started out slowly, describing different places even to their most mundane points but all along he couldn't help but notice how rapt her attention had been, how she laughed with him when he told her about his awful experiences with translating simple questions into foreign languages (which did explain how he ended up at a bath-house instead of a bathroom), how she almost wept when he described bare-foot children begging for money and food on sewage-strewn streets, how she seemed to melt into the bar top when he described seeing sunsets over the vast endlessness of the ocean.

That night, after walking her home to her parents' house (and taking the good-natured jibes like a man about not having a vehicle), he felt as giddy as a kid. He memorized her phone number in about five minutes, repeating it over and over in his head as a mantra and fretting over when it would be appropriate to call her next (he didn't want to seem too desperate or uninterested). But despite what he told himself about taking it slow and not rushing into anything, John couldn't keep his emotions down for long.

John was in love with Mary from the moment he laid eyes on her.


	4. Flawed

_Was it a coincidence that the fire started in my nursery? My brother tells me no; my father avoids the conversation all together. But sometimes he looks at me funny and I feel something slither down my spine. As much as Dean tries to reassure me that none of this was ever my fault and as much as I try to reassure him that I know that, deep down I can't help but think that if it wasn't for me, perhaps he would still have a mother._

Sam had heard of children whose mothers died in childbirth. He wondered if they ever felt guilty. He wonders if their fathers or siblings ever blame them. Then he tries to imagine himself in Dean's shoes and whether or not he'd blame him. Sam realizes that he never could blame Dean for something like that. He can often blame Dean for other things; that awful smell in the bathroom minutes before he planned to take a shower for instance, but nothing more serious than that.

They had left him one night. His dad was working on a hunt that took up more time than they were used to and for once, Sam was living in a proper apartment. Granted, it was in one of the worst parts of town possible, but Sam didn't mind. He had bought a framed picture in a second-hand shop one night when he was coming home from school. It was a picture of a giant oak tree sitting on a groomed lawn in black and white, with a dilapidated fence in the background and some mist hovering above the ground. Dean said it was cheesy and would look stupid on the wall. His father had shrugged and told him to do as he pleased. Sam stuck it on the hallway opposite the kitchen. Now, as he was folded over his homework on the kitchen table, he would sometimes glance at that picture before forcing himself to concentrate on his schoolbook.

The power went out, signalled by flickering lights and the dying hum of the refrigerator. Sam blinked in surprise at the sudden darkness, only now realizing that there was indeed a storm outside and he had neglected to close the windows in the apartment. He hurried to the patio door and slammed it shut, then ran to the two small bedrooms to close those windows. He stood in his dad's bedroom wondering what to do with himself, whether he should continue to do his homework by candlelight or just wait until the power went back on.

Deciding on the former, he trudged back into the kitchen and rummaged through the drawers, looking for both a candle and something to light it with. He found a box of emergency candles; little white ones that looked like they would last an entire 20 minutes if he were lucky. He lit one and grabbed a small plate, letting some of the candle's wax drip onto the plate before he stuck the candle in the middle so it would stand up on its own. Deciding that it was far too dark to read his textbook, Sam sat on the couch in the living room and placed the candle on the coffee table.

For a few minutes he slapped his palms on his jeans but then grew bored of that too. He glanced at one of the cushions on the couch before justifying that there was no harm in taking a small nap. He would compensate by staying up later to finish his homework once the power came back on.

He wasn't sure what woke him up, whether it was a noise or the sudden feeling of being chilled to the bone. Either way, he woke up with a start and looked around for a blanket. Not seeing one, he cautiously walked the darkened hallway to the bedroom he shared with Dean and dug through their clothes drawer before finding a sweatshirt. He figured out it was Dean's once he already had it on, but wore it anyway. If Dean wanted to argue about it when they got home, Sam would advise him to go looking through drawers practically blind-folded and see if he could pick out whose clothes belonged to whom.

He had left the candle in the living room, so he couldn't be sure exactly what he saw in the bathroom mirror when he passed by it. What he thought he saw, or didn't see, was enough to give him pause though, and he slowly pushed the bathroom door completely open to step inside. With what little light he had, Sam peered into the oval mirror.

A flash of lightning momentarily lit up the entire apartment, enough that Sam jumped when he saw the split-second image of a woman behind him. Spinning, Sam turned around but saw nothing. His heart pounded wildly in his chest and he immediately pictured the last place he saw a salt-filled shotgun lying around. _By dad's bed_.

His dad's bedroom was right next to the bathroom. Stepping as lightly as he could, Sam crept into the bedroom and jerked in surprise. The window was open. The white curtains were billowing in the wind and rain was splattering off the sill and dribbling down the wall. _But I closed that_, he thought to himself. Before going to close the window, Sam grabbed the shotgun by his dad's headboard, knowing that his father would have thoughtfully filled it with ammo before leaving the apartment. With the shotgun in one hand, Sam reached out and closed the window as quietly as he could. For a few minutes after he shut the window, Sam stood in front of it, controlling his quickened breathing so he could concentrate on every noise in the apartment. He could hear the cheap plastic clock ticking away in the kitchen; it's batteries giving it extended life in the midst of darkness. He took a moment to reflect on the sheer silence of the apartment; no electrical hum, no footsteps, no Dean audibly chomping down pork rinds.

That was until he heard a drip of water splash onto something. He checked the window again to make sure he had completely closed and locked it. He heard the drip again and knew this time that it was coming from the bathroom. He tip-toed out of his father's bedroom, noting how his breath was quickening again and feeling cool beads of perspiration on his forehead. The door to the bathroom was closed again, this time completely. Sam had to turn the handle achingly slow to avoid the rusty squeak it normally made in order to open the door. He went in with the barrel of the gun leading the way and his body second. Looking wildly around him, Sam was given another start by the image of the tub filled to the brim with water. Sam shook his head, _this is not possible_, he told himself.

He knelt down on the floor and placed the shotgun beside him. He rolled the sleeves of the sweatshirt up and then reached one long arm into the tub to pull out the plug. While in the process, a new drip sounded, but this time not from the tub. Sam felt something warm on his upper lip. He gingerly felt his nose with his finger and drew his hand back quickly, going for the role of toilet paper instead. His nose was bleeding. Before he could get the wad of Kleenex beneath his nose, one drip landed into the water of the tub. His eyes followed the drop of blood, mesmerized by the way it swirled in misty patterns when it came into contact with water. He was peering into the water when he saw the reflection of the woman standing on his right.

Scrambling back with a panicked shout of surprise, Sam fumbled for the shotgun while scuttling backwards on his heels. She was standing in front of him, wearing a white nightgown that looked wet and dirty. Her long dark hair was matted against her head, some the strands were slick with blood. Her face was unnaturally pale and the dried blood covering the lower half of her face was evidence of a previous nosebleed. She was pointing at Sam and took a step towards him.

"Get back!" Sam shouted as he cocked the gun. He was about to pull the trigger when he realized that she had stopped. _Is she actually listening to me? They never listen_. Her lips mouthed silent words. Sam paused in his movements, concentrating on reading her lips.

"I can't hear you!" He yelled at the spirit. "What are you saying?"

She seemed to understand as her lip movements correspondingly became slower. Even then, Sam could still only make out one word.

"Soon?" He repeated back to her. She nodded. "Soon what?"

Her face crumpled, as if she were about to cry. Instead, she screamed. The noise was ear-splitting and Sam dropped the shotgun as he covered both ears and closed his eyes.

He woke with a start and covered in cool sweat. He was still on the couch, without a blanket or a sweatshirt. His arms trembled slightly as he pushed himself to a sitting position and rubbed his eyes. He was confused and groggy, and somewhat panicked from his dream, which he had to continually remind himself was in fact a dream. He wandered into the kitchen, noting that the time on the clock indicated he had been asleep for over an hour. To reassure himself, he walked into the bathroom and pushed the door open, peering around it to see if the bathtub was filled with water. To his immense relief, it wasn't.

He jumped when he heard the front door open and the voices of his dad and brother enter the small apartment. He jogged to the front entrance and was greeted jovially by Dean who looked like death warmed over.

"What happened to you?" Sam asked. Dean's hair was caked with mud and there were bits of bloody who-knew-what splattered against his cheeks. He looked unbelievably happy given the circumstances.

"Got the son-of-a-bitch, Sammy. You missed out. What the hell did you do to the power? Does this mean I can't take a shower? 'Cause if it does, I'm sleeping in your bed tonight." Before Sam could answer any of it, Dean had already bypassed him and made his way to the kitchen to down the remaining milk in the fridge.

His dad passed him the bag of weapons before taking off his jacket. Sam noted that his dad looked infinitely better than his brother did. "Those will need to be cleaned," his father instructed. Sam nodded and placed the bag of weapons by the kitchen table. His dad entered the kitchen to also find something to eat and drink.

Feeling slightly useless, Sam stood outside the kitchen and watched his family. "Is this milk still good?" Dean asked while pausing to take another swig.

"Fine time to ask," his father replied.

They were ransacking the deli meat and cheese, preparing to make sandwiches. "Pretty damn hard to do in the dark. Sammy, you find any candles?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded and headed into the living room where he had left the now smouldering candle and the pack of unlit candles. He picked up the pack and the lighter and headed back, where his father and brother met him halfway. Sam was standing in front of the patio window, facing his brother and father when a scream made him freeze in his tracks.

John and Dean stared, and as though in slow motion, a body plummeted past the window. They bolted for the window and threw open the patio door to stand on the balcony and get a better look. Sam remained where he was, feeling his pulse quicken and his breath come out in tiny gasps.

"Holy shit," Dean whispered. John grimaced and pulled Dean back from the balcony, shutting the doors and pulling the blinds shut. He patted Sam on the shoulder as he passed him. "Jumper," John stated.

"I know," Sam breathed.

Dean was shaking his head as he headed back into the kitchen. The power came back on, make Dean whoop. John was about to join Dean in the kitchen, when something occurred to him. Sam never saw the jumper. He still hadn't moved and he was trembling slightly underneath John's touch.

"Sammy?" John prompted.

Sam opened his eyes. John was surprised at how pale the boy suddenly was. "It's nothing," Sam lied. He walked quickly away from his brother and his dad and headed for his bedroom. John stared at him for a long time after he left.

"What is it?" Dean mumbled around a mouth full of sandwich.

John was still staring at the bedroom door. "It's nothing," John lied.


	5. Precious

_I don't remember being told that I was smart. I took it for granted that everyone else started reading the encyclopaedia for fun at age 6 too. I think I realized perhaps I wasn't like everyone else when my brother began affectionately referring to me as "Member of the Geek Squad Since 1983"._

"Sammy, what'd you find?" Bobby's voice called out to Sam from the kitchen where John, Caleb and Dean were cleaning and organizing weapons.

"Hang on!" Sam called back. He was sitting cross-legged in Bobby's cluttered living room with about a dozen books spread out all around him and opened to various pages. He was scanning each book quickly, running his finger over the paragraphs in each text until he tapped at one. "Got it!"

Picking it up, he jogged back into the kitchen and plopped the opened book in the middle of the arsenal being assembled by the group of hunters. Sam excitedly pointed to the caption underneath a gruesome black and white photograph of bones piled on top of each other and partial skulls assembled in front. "Almost identical to the one we got here, except this one comes from up north. In 1886 a man from the Montana Blackfoot reserve was arrested, convicted and hung for killing his entire family and then eating them. He said he was possessed by a Wendigo and that he craved human flesh. He begged for them to kill him."

"I don't get it. So is the Wendigo real or does it just possess people?" Dean asked.

"Both," Sam answered. "There are reports of both in a whole bunch of different tribes. Sometimes you see the real thing and sometimes you get the real thing stuck inside you."

"That's nice Sam, but how do we get rid of it?" John impatiently asked.

Sam flipped the pages of the book to another section. "Well, in this story they got rid of the real thing with fire. But when it comes to the possessed, it looks like there are one of two ways to free the victim. The first is to try to starve it out. People who are possessed by the Wendigo are constantly hungry and craving human flesh. In this instance, they chained a woman who was possessed to the wall for three days until she was weak enough that they could force her to drink water. In all, it took nearly a week for traces of the Wendigo to disappear completely."

John looked up from the book to Sam's face. "Sammy, we don't have a week. Hell, we might not even have a day!"

Sam shrugged. "It's a hell of a lot better than option number two." He flipped the book to a different section with a very graphic drawing. Dean and Caleb leaned on the table to get a better look, but both immediately slumped back into their chairs with an exaggerated "eeewww". John and Bobby looked grimly at the drawing, and John began to stroke his chin in thought.

"So the only way to not kill someone possessed is to starve the damn thing out," he concluded. Sam nodded gravely.

"And if that doesn't work?" Caleb prompted.

John stood up from the table, shrugging one of his arms into his black leather coat. He pointed down at the book. "Then I guess we better pack an axe."

Sam was in the middle of putting on his jacket when his father laid a hand on his chest. "Whoa there son. Where the hell do you think you're going?"

Sam froze and took in the looks of everyone else in the room. Dean was smiling sympathetically at him, Caleb was suddenly engrossed with cleaning a gun that had already been cleaned, and Bobby was shaking his head. "I thought-"

John cocked his head. "You thought wrong. There's no way you're coming with us on this one. Too dangerous."

He turned away to gather his guns from the kitchen table. Sam's arms dropped in defeat.

"Dad's right Sammy," Dean said. "It's too dangerous. What if something happened to that precious noggin of yours?"

"Yeah," Caleb agreed as he passed a shotgun to Dean on his way out the door. "He could turn out as retarded as you."

Caleb ducked under the swinging fist that Dean threw at the back of his head.

With the dying sounds of Dean yelling colourful expletives at Caleb's expense, and Caleb's witty barbs in reply out on the veranda, Sam was left alone in the house. For a few minutes he did nothing but stand in the same spot, looking around him for something to do, or better yet, kick. He was growing increasingly jealous of Dean, Caleb, even of Bobby for being able to accompany his father on each and every hunt while he stayed behind to read books and archived newspaper articles.

In a fit of rebellion that only Sam could think rebellious, he carefully put every book back on the shelf in alphabetical order, did the dishes in the sink then sat in front of the television and ate popcorn.

He was slouched on the couch with his arm wrapped around the half-eaten bowl of microwave popcorn, head slumped on one shoulder and snoring lightly in front of an old television with the channel set on Cosby Show reruns. He didn't hear the front door creak open or the sound of heavy boots creeping towards him. It was only when a callused hand landed on his shoulder that he finally jerked awake. Rubbing his eyes open, Sam looked up in surprise.

"Dean, what are you doing home? Where's dad and the others?"

Dean smiled down at him. "Hey kiddo. I'm real hungry."

Sam cocked his head at Dean. Not that Dean being hungry was a revelation or anything, but it was the way he said it that got Sam's attention.

"Where is everyone else?" Sam repeated.

Dean shrugged, still smiling down at Sam. He gripped harder on Sam's shoulder making him wince. "You're kind of skinny, Sammy boy. We need to fatten you up. I think I liked you better when you were chubby."

Sam tried to wiggle his shoulder out of Dean's grip, but Dean responded by digging his fingers into Sam's flesh. Sam gasped and grabbed onto Dean's arm with both hands. "Dean! What the hell's gotten into-" Sam stopped himself as realization took hold.

Dean chuckled at Sam's wide-eyed expression. "Figured it out, huh? Always were too smart for your own good, Sammy."

He dragged Sam up by his shoulder until Sam was inches from his face.

Sam jumped when the door slammed open then yelled for his dad as John, Caleb and Bobby barged in with shotguns raised. Dean lazily looked over his shoulder at the arriving cavalry.

"It's rude to interrupt, dad."

John raised the shotgun to eyesight and squinted down the barrel at his oldest son. "Let him go Dean."

Dean shrugged, then let go of Sam who backed away quickly while rubbing his shoulder.

"You don't know what it's like, dad. I'm awfully hungry."

_To be continued…_


	6. Helena

_I met my first girlfriend a year ago, when I was 15. At the time we were living in Oregon, close to the ocean and not far from the Washington border. I met her in school after I tripped over my own feet and dumped my books on the floor in front of her. First she laughed at me, which made me want to die. Then she reached down and offered me a hand. She helped me pick up my books, even while her friends giggled like idiots and the other students in the packed hallway were still re-enacting my brilliant dive. She somehow ignored them and switched subjects like a pro, focusing on one of my books._

"Huh, you reading this book for fun?" Kimberly Pinkerton waved Sam's tattered copy of "All Quiet on the Western Front" in his face.

"Uh, yeah, it's kind of…" Sam was desperately trying to grab it back from her.

"It's totally depressing," she murmured as she thumbed through it.

Sam's jaw dropped slightly. "You've read it?"

Kimberly stopped and gave him a quizzical look. "You sound surprised. Did you think I read "Seventeen" magazines all day?"

Sam's eyes widened as he registered the foot currently entering his mouth. "Um, no, no, I didn't think…I didn't think anything…I just…"

"Dude! Amazing dive! You totally biffed it!" Three jocks were currently patting Sam vigorously on his back while they walked past, nudging him so hard in the shoulder he nearly lost his balance again.

"Yeah, thanks," he mumbled in reply, rolling his eyes and still wishing he could somehow hide in a locker for the rest of the day.

"Did you ever see the movie?"

Sam's jumbled mind suddenly caught on to the fact that Kimberly was still talking to him. He subconsciously wondered why she hadn't run away screaming yet, but he supposed that was bound to happen in the near future. "Um, no. I didn't even know there was one."

Kimberly's blue eyes widened and her mouth opened revealing her perfectly straight white teeth and an overall gorgeous smile that made Sam melt. "It's so good. I own it. You should come over some time and watch it."

Sam's heart jumped up into his throat. "Like, at your house?"

Kimberly rolled her eyes and whacked Sam on his shoulder with the paperback. "No dumbass, at my private movie theatre."

The bell rang at that moment, and Sam desperately wished he brought a shotgun to school that day to blast the damn thing off the wall. Kimberly passed him his book back. "Look, I've got to head to class. But I'll see you later, okay? We can make plans to watch the movie. Bye!"

Sam's mouth tried to form the word "bye", but instead he found himself staring after her petite form, her long blonde hair swaying from side to side as she walked, the way her jeans fit snugly around her…suddenly, Sam felt like a pervert. He coughed forcefully and quickly walked off in the opposite direction, completely forgetting which class he had next.

For whatever reason, Sam never told his dad and Dean what he was really doing that night. He told them both that he was going to see a movie with some friends and that he would be back by 11:00 p.m. His dad asked gruffly whether he had protection, which made Sam gag until he realized John was referring to a 9 mm. Sam nodded his head more vigorously than needed, making Dean's eyebrows shoot to the top of his forehead as he studied his kid brother. Sam stuttered a goodbye and nearly tripped over his too-big feet trying to get out of the door.

John and Dean looked at each other. "First girlfriend?" John asked.

"Oh yeah," Dean confirmed.

Sam dried his sweaty palms off on his worn out jeans before extending his hand to Kimberly's father. Her father eyed him sternly up and down before introducing him to Mrs. Pinkerton, who beamed at him and drew him into a very tight hug. Next came the younger brother Matt who smirked at him in an unsettlingly mischievous way. Then came the introductions to the overweight and geriatric family dog, followed by the tuxedo kitten that was Kimberly's birthday present earlier that year.

When it came time to have dinner, Kimberly made sure that Sam sat right next to her and that her brother was on the other side of the table where he could make ridiculous faces at them.

After dinner and dessert, and fervently denying that he required seconds or thirds, Kimberly took his hand and led him upstairs to her room. He couldn't help but stand in the doorway of the large room, taking in the pink flower pattern on her bedspread, the stuffed animals sitting in a hammock smiling at him, the glossy magazines strewn about on the floor and the purple beanbag chair in the corner beside the picture window. It was all so _normal_.

She kindly offered him the beanbag chair as she popped the VHS tape into the small tv with a built-in VCR. He declined and let her have it as he stretched out on the floor in front of the tv, resting his back against the bed.

It was difficult to concentrate on the movie. It was in black and white, Sam knew that much. He jumped when he heard scratching at the door and was about to reach for his backpack to unload a round of salt at whatever was trying to get into the bedroom, when Kimberly opened the door to her meowing cat. It wound itself around his legs and Sam stared at it before Kimberly nudged him and encouraged him to pick it up. He held it in the air in front of his face, studying the cat who stared back at him with oblivious green eyes. Kimberly snickered and started making fun of him for treating a domestic animal like an alien so he compensated by cradling the kitten in his arms and rubbing its chin.

"What's the matter? Never had a cat before?"

_Never had a home before_, Sam thought to himself. "Uh, my dad's more of a dog person," he lied, which got Sam to thinking about whether or not he'd ever seen his dad even pet a dog before.

They went back to watching the movie. Within a few minutes, Sam had a black and white kitten curled on his lap, and a beautiful girl resting her head on his shoulder. He wondered if this is what it was like for his dad and his mom, before everything happened. When the movie ended, Kim sat up and yawned, stretching her arms and back out before turning to him to ask whether or not he liked it. Sam said he loved it.

She walked him to the door and Sam found that he couldn't remove the grin from his face. He was standing on her porch while she stood in the doorway with her arms crossed against her chest.

"So," she began, finding that his grin was contagious. "Do you think you'd ever want to come back to see another movie?"

Sam couldn't speak. Instead, his grin widened to a full smile as he nodded.

"Good," she said before she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.

The smile stayed on Sam's face as he floated his way back to the place he currently called home. It was still on his face when he entered the house, but was quickly wiped away when he spied his father and brother sitting riveted in front of the television, completely ignoring his entrance. There was some sort of news bulletin on, with a man in an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs being led to a dark van by police armed to the teeth.

"What's going on?"

Dean slowly turned to face him, only now realizing that Sam was back. "Sammy," he said with wide eyes. "You gotta see this."


	7. Broken Dreams

_I don't like to change in front of other people. I won't hide in a dressing room, but I won't stand around in my boxer shorts like the other guys in the change room either. I try to get the gym clothes off and my regular clothes on as quickly as humanly possible. I don't want people to see the scars and the last thing my family needs is to have some nosy teacher asking questions and requesting interviews with my guardian. I take my time putting on my socks and my shoes though. At least that way it doesn't look like I'm hiding everything._

"Dean, bring that light in closer," John ordered calmly. Dean did as asked, bending the flexible lamp until the small halogen bulb was buzzing annoyingly in the back of Sam's head.

"Are you almost done?" Sam murmured into the pillow beneath his face.

"Just a few more," his dad answered. Sam shifted slightly beneath his father's arms. "Sammy, if you don't hold still I can't finish this properly," his father admonished.

Sam mumbled a half-hearted apology from the confines of the pillow.

"That's gonna leave a scar," Dean announced, rather proudly.

"A bad one?" Sam asked, raising his head to judge Dean's reaction.

"Dean, don't tell him that," his father reprimanded. Dean winked at Sam nonetheless and Sam dropped his head into the pillow with a groan.

"Don't worry about it Sammy! Chicks dig scars. They get all touchy and feely about 'em. Want to know what they can do to heal that poor, wounded soul." Dean added cheerfully.

"It's _Sam_." He growled in reply.

"Trust me dude. In a few years you're gonna thank me for hesitating before I pulled that trigger."

As his father pulled the last stitch through Sam's shoulder blade, Dean leaned himself off the bed and strolled into the tiny kitchen, pouring himself a glass of milk and taking his time drinking. The truth of it was, he had been terrified. The chupacabra was about to make mince-meat out of his brother who was pinned face-down underneath the chupacabra's weight and screaming bloody murder. He didn't hesitate; instead, he made sure that his aim was true, that there would be no chance of even grazing his brother. The chupacraba had crumpled from the shotgun blast but was back on its feet a few minutes later and trotting off. His dad had taken after it, leaving Dean to collect his bleeding and battered brother.

Sam had insisted that he was fine, that he could walk unattended. Dean suspected it was a lie, partly from the fact that Sam's face was white as a sheet and his legs trembled under his weight, but he let Sam walk by himself anyway. He never strayed more than an inch from Sam's shoulder and occasionally shot out a hand to steady Sam when he stumbled.

Sam had put on a brave front the entire way home, which left Dean with a mixture of pride and guilt that he had let Sam get injured in the first place. His dad didn't assign blame on this one and in fact was oddly quiet during the drive. Dean couldn't figure out if his father was simmering in his anger until it was a better time to let Dean really have it, or if he really didn't think it was that bad. Either way, Dean carefully chose his words for the rest of the evening and made sure he stayed an arm's length away from his dad.

After Sam was completely patched up and sedated with enough pain killers to ensure a good night's rest, Dean and his dad left the motel room and stood outside.

"Dad, I'm sorry," Dean admitted.

His father watched his breath exhale as fog in the cold night air before answering. "For what?"

Dean blinked in surprise. "For screwing up!" He explained, arms raising in frustration at his father's complacency. "For nearly getting Sammy killed!"

"Keep your voice down," John ordered. Dean's arms fell to his sides and slapped against his jeans as he complied with a frown. John turned to him and leaned against the white brick exterior of the motel room. "What happened tonight wasn't your fault," John stated simply.

Dean's eyes widened but John silenced him with a hand. "Sammy should have been watching his own back. Thing is, Sammy just doesn't think about those types of things. He's not like you or me. He just doesn't have the same instincts we do." John jammed his hands into his jean pockets and turned so his back was resting against the wall. "He wasn't meant for this life."

"What are you saying?" Dean asked. "Sammy's smart. He's brave. Hell, he's seen and been through more crap in his life than any other 14-year old kid ever will and he's still the same old Sammy," Dean reasoned.

"The "same old Sammy" just isn't cut out for this job, Dean. Never was, never will be."

Dean was staring at his father incredulously. "Than why do you bring him? Why do you make him train so much?"

"Because this life chose us, Dean. Like it or not, Sam's gonna have to be prepared for what's ahead. And it's a shame Dean, it really is. Kid's smarter than most grown men I've met but I need him to put that aside and pick up a gun instead. I'm doing this for him. He's always gonna be in danger, no matter where he goes. He's always gonna notice things that other people don't and that's what's gonna get him into trouble. If I don't train him properly, if I don't teach him how to take his licks and get up to fight another day, he'll be ripped to shreds. At least this way, he'll still be alive."

Dean shook his head. His father sighed, knew that it would take more than that to convince his eldest son. As it was, he said all he could tonight and patted Dean on the chest as he returned to the motel room where Sam was sleeping peacefully.

"Alive for what?" Dean asked the night sky.


	8. Believe

_I couldn't do this without my brother. Don't get me wrong, sometimes Dean annoys the shit out of me. We've had our battles, both in words and fists. At the same time, Dean can just look at me and know when I'm ready to explode at my dad and the world. I know he can read my mind and in his own silent way he's telling me that everything will be okay, even if he doesn't believe that himself._

The fight had started at the kitchen table after dinner and had escalated until both John and Sam were standing, shouting and pointing fingers at each other. It was unsettling to say the least for Dean, especially considering that he was sitting directly between the two warring parties.

"If you'd pull your head out of your ass for two goddamn seconds, you'd realize-"

"What, dad? That you don't know what the hell you're doing?"

That last comment had made John's voice raise a good decibel or two. "Who the hell do you think you're talking to, boy? This is my house and these are my rules. You got a problem with that then maybe we should take it outside."

Sam threw his arms in the air. "So what? It's not enough we get the crap beaten out of us by the demon of the week, now you wanna get your two cents in there too?"

"Maybe if you'd actually take orders once in awhile you wouldn't get yourself banged up so often!" John retorted.

Dean chose that moment to try to stand between them, placing a hand on each chest. "Okay, I think that's enough, why don't you two-"

"STAY OUT OF IT!" Came the unified response.

Dean wisely slumped back down into his chair. "And staying out of it," he whispered.

"Screw it, I'm done with it." Sam announced as he left the kitchen.

"What are you gonna do Sammy? Huh? Gonna go write some poetry and listen to country music?" John yelled after him.

Sam's bedroom door slammed in reply. John stormed out of the kitchen, grabbing his worn leather jacket out of the closet and pocketing his car keys. "I'm going out. I'll be back." He slammed the door shut behind him, leaving a frazzled Dean still sitting at the kitchen table. Slowly, he stood up from the table, gathering the dirty dinner plates and piling them into the sink. Normally, it would be Sam's job to clean the dishes but he somehow doubted that would happen tonight. Dean turned on the tap and squirted a generous helping of dishsoap into the water, leaving his hands to soak in the warm water as it filled with bubbles. He took his time doing the dishes, and for some odd reason tried to make as little noise as possible while doing them. When they were dried and put away, he folded the dishtowel over his shoulder and made his way to the room he shared with Sam.

Uncharacteristically, Dean knocked before entering.

_To be continued._


	9. Old Habits

_Dad had been gone for an entire week. It was just Dean and I. I'm not going to lie; that's exactly the way I like it. Dad had taken off with Bobby in Bobby's truck. He left the Impala to Dean. I know Dean was pissed about not getting to go with Dad and Bobby, but dad also didn't feel comfortable with leaving a 12 year old by himself. Dean took me for drives in the Impala, testing out its maximum speed on empty roads barely big enough for one car. It was close to the end of summer, and we were somewhere in Idaho. The sun would go down in a blaze of glory over fields of golden wheat and Dean and I would just drive for a good hour at least, talking about sports and girls and cars and 70's rock music; all subjects I knew nothing about. That was the best summer of my life._

"But my gawd, that girl had a rack," Dean finished his story with his characteristic smirk and a glimmer in his eye.

Sam listened with childlike exuberance, grinning and blushing at all the right parts, nodding his head as if he even knew what Dean was referring to. Dean looked at his brother, his chubby little sidekick with dimples and shoes that still had Velcro straps. He reached over and ruffled Sam's hair, with Sam playfully swatting his hand away.

"Ah, when you're old enough Sammy you'll know exactly what I'm talking about," Dean sighed.

"All the girls in my class are gross. And they laugh at everything. I don't know why," Sam admitted.

"That's why we call 'em Gigglets, Sammy." Dean advised.

Sam cocked his head to the side. "Gigglets? Never heard that one before."

"Well, it makes sense when you think about it. Don't worry; they don't stay Gigglets forever. Wait till you get to high school. If you think they're scary now, they'll really scare the shit out of you then."

Sam's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates at the implication of such a thought. But then his eyes suddenly narrowed and a frown took over as he registered that the car was coming to a stop on the shoulder of the road. He looked at his brother questioningly; his brother just grinned back. "Alright kiddo, out."

Sam frowned even deeper but did as he was told. "What's going on?" he asked as he cautiously exited the vehicle.

Dean laid his arms on the roof of the car as he regarded his younger brother from the other side. "It's time for Driving School O' Dean."

Sam's eyes nearly bulged out of his head. "But Dean, if dad finds out-"

Dean slapped the top of the car. "That's why he ain't gonna find out, tuba cheeks. Come on, hop in."

Sam nearly tripped trying to run over so fast, as if the invitation might be reneged on if he wasn't quick enough. He hopped into the driver's seat, scooting to the edge of the seat so his short legs could reach the pedals. He was just barely tall enough to see over the steering wheel. Dean regarded the scene with amusement and did his best not to laugh out loud. Sam was studying every knob and function in front of him when Dean snapped his fingers to get his brother's attention.

"Okay Sammy. First lesson of driving and this is the most important." Sam stared at him in anticipation. Dean held up an old shoebox. "Tunes. Driver must pick the most inspirational tunes for the drive. Now Sammy, it's absolutely vital that you take into consideration the type of drive you are about to embark on. For instance, you'll note that we are driving down a nice, calm, country road as opposed to a freeway in the middle of the night with six cop cars on our ass. Now, in this situation do you think "Hell's Bells" would be appropriate?"

Sam shook his head seriously. Dean nodded. "Good, 'cause it isn't. What would be much more appropriate would be something nice and mellow, and I'm thinking CCR, or-"

"Wilson Phillips?" Sam offered. Dean's head shot to the side to glare at Sam when he realized Sam was holding up a cassette that did indeed read Wilson Phillips. Dean snatched it out of his brother's hand and studied it with furrowed eyebrows. "Don't know how this thing got in here…" Dean mumbled. He quickly shoved it to the bottom of the shoebox when he thought Sam wasn't looking. Instead, he popped in the Steve Miller Band and continued with his tutorial.

"Now grasp the steering wheel Sammy. Firmly. You are now in control of the Impala, but you gotta let her know it."

Sam squeezed the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white and his face turned red.

"Then you drop her into drive," Dean motioned the gears, "and you slowly, but confidently, stop onto the gas and put 'er in motion."

Sam was glancing to his feet. "Okay. Which one is gas again?"

Dean slapped his forehead with his palm. "Oh my god."


	10. Bother

_I saw the first advertisements for college scholarships two years ago, posted outside the guidance counsellor's office. A scholarship is the only way I'm getting to college. We don't exactly have money stored under the floorboards of our non-existent family home._

Sam was sitting in the room he shared with his brother, one leg curled beneath him and the other hanging off the edge of his cot. He was staring intently at the front of the pamphlet, the one that showed smiling students with books and binders tucked under their arms and an old brick building with an oak tree in the background. They looked so annoyingly happy and perfect. He wondered how many of those smiling preppy idiots had ever dug up a grave in the middle of the night to pour salt on the decayed body and then burn it? He threw the pamphlet to the side and flopped against his pillows.

There was a soft rap on the door. "Come in," Sam called.

"You decent?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Sam called back.

"You sure? Because last time I barged in you were doing something really weird with hand lotion and-"

"Just shut the door already, asshole!" Sam yelled.

Dean stepped inside with a cocky grin and shut the door quietly behind him. "What's up?"

Sam studied his brother cautiously. Dean wasn't exactly the type to start asking people how they felt about this and that. He was more likely to just hand them a beer and tell them to suck it up. "What do you mean?" Sam countered.

Dean rolled his eyes. "You know that thing that just happened in the kitchen? The one where you and dad almost gouged each other's eyes out? That's what I mean."

Sam shook his head and dropped his eyes. "He just doesn't listen to me."

Dean crossed his arms as he leaned against the doorjamb. "Goes both ways, man. You still mad at him for that whole Kim thing?"

Sam's eyes flared to life. "Shut up Dean. This is more than just that."

Dean sighed as he lowered himself on Sam's bed to sit beside him. "That's just how this life goes, Sammy. We can't afford luxuries like-"

"What the hell do you know about it, Dean?" Sam yelled as he stood up from the bed. "If you have a one-night stand that lasts until the morning, you consider that a long-term relationship!"

Dean shook his finger up at Sam. "Wait just a minute, I'll have you know-" but his retort was cut short by a pacing Sam.

"And what 'life', exactly? Who chose this life, Dean? 'Cause I sure as hell didn't!"

Dean sighed and rubbed his eyes. "What is it you want Sam?"

Sam threw his hands into the air. "I want a home! I want to go to the same school for more than 6 months! I want to come home and have dinner and do homework and go to bed! Do you know what I did last night after school, Dean? I did laps around the house for an hour, and then I researched a spell for raising the dead, and then I made shotgun shells filled with salt. What part of that sounds normal to you?"

Dean stood up and tried to calm his brother down. "I get it, okay? I know this isn't-"

"And I want a cat!" Sam yelled into his brother's face. An awkward pause filled the void between the brothers. Sam blushed and turned away to hide his face, leaving Dean completely baffled.

"You want a cat?" Dean asked quietly.

"Yes, I want a cat! Or some kind of pet. Maybe a budgie or something." Sam started pacing again.

"You want a budgie?"

"Is there a fucking echo in this room? You know what I mean!"

"Okay!" Dean yelled. He was waving his hands around, trying to silence Sam's tirade. "I get it. We're dysfunctional." Dean shrugged. "You want a white-picket fence and a prep school and a freakin' Persian cat named Puddles. I get it."

"No you don't." Sam sighed as he sat down on his bed again. "You actually enjoy this. You love hunting. You sulk whenever dad doesn't let you tag along."

"I don't sulk," Dean mumbled. Sam silenced him with a sharp glare. Dean shrugged and sat down beside his brother. "But Sam, what we do, we're helping people. We can save people."

Sam turned to look Dean in the eye. "Dean, I could be a doctor and save people. I could become a researcher and find a cure for cancer. There are lots of other things I could do to save people. But what are the chances that I'm going to be able to do any of that?"

For once, Dean didn't have an answer. The two boys sat in silence, Sam picking at his fingernails and Dean looking about their room, at the closet that was empty because all their clothes were still in duffel bags; the lack of posters, awards, trophies, and the furniture that was all second-hand.

"I'm sorry," Dean whispered.

Sam's face paled at Dean's utterance. "Don't apologize Dean. It's not your fault."

"I know," Dean said. "But you're right. You deserve something better than this. I'm just sorry that I can't give it to you. If I could, I would make it so that you were living in Connecticut or some shit like that. You could walk around like a dork with a sweater around your shoulders."

Sam laughed and then shook his head. "Only if you were there with me," he said quietly.

Dean cocked an eyebrow at Sam. "If you want to go through life looking like a dork Sam, that's up to you. But don't you drag me down with you."

A grin played at the edges of Sam's lips. "I don't know Dean. I think you would look fabulous in a leisure suit." Dean rolled his eyes. "Maybe pale blue," Sam continued. Dean got off the bed and started walking out the door, doing his best to tune Sam out. Sam followed on his heels. "It could really bring out your eyes."


	11. Cutting Down

_If you've never heard of a Wendigo, consider yourself lucky. North American Indians tell the story of a zombie-like creature that feeds on human flesh and flies through the frigid winter nights. If you've never heard of a human that's been possessed by a Wendigo, consider yourself even luckier._

When Sam came home that day, he found both his brother and his father sitting in front of the television, completely enraptured with what they were seeing. Sam instinctively knew that it was not a good sign.

"What's going on?"

Dean slowly turned to face him, only now realizing that Sam was back. "Sammy," he said with wide eyes. "You gotta see this."

The news cameras were jogging up to a police car, zooming into the window and adjusting the focus until a deeply lined face with pitch-black hair came into view. He stared stonily ahead, oblivious to the cameras and reporters around the squad car. Hands reached into the car and led him out, revealing a bright orange jumpsuit and hands and legs encased in iron. Several cops stood guard, outfitted in bulletproof vests with shotguns at the ready. The man was being led to dark van with tinted windows. The cameras rushed in, jostling each other to get a close-up of the man.

"Why are we watching this?" Sam asked.

"Dude went completely psycho. Hacked up a bunch of people with a Rambo knife and then ate them. Some of them were his own family," Dean informed.

Sam shrugged. "So why do you guys care?"

John's low voice finally broke in. "He says there's a Wendigo inside of him."

Sam frowned. "You think it's real?"

John was still studying the television intently. "He comes from a tribe that was apparently haunted by a Wendigo back in the 1800's. Sounds legit."

Sam dumped his backpack beside the couch with an exasperated sigh. "Yeah, or maybe he's just criminally insane. What are you gonna do? Bust into the county jail to stick a flare up his ass?"

John and Dean jerked in surprise, glanced at each other, then slowly turned to stare at Sam. Sam only then realized how uncharacteristic his outburst was. His eyes widened as he tried to stammer up an excuse. "I just mean…that…you know…"

John snorted with a bemused smile and turned back to the television. "Last I heard, Bobby lived close to that area. And I hear that Caleb was supposed to be heading up to those parts."

Dean nodded along with his dad's line of thinking. "Could probably use back-up on this one. They'd be good to bring into it."

John stood up and turned the television off with the remote. "Unless they've already caught on to it. Either way, why don't you ring Caleb up on his cell phone."

Dean hopped to his feet and nudged Sam out of the way with his shoulder as he made his way into the hallway to use the phone. John passed by Sam as well, heading into the kitchen.

Sam raised his arms. "Whoa, hey. We aren't going after this thing are we? That's almost half way across the country!"

John was digging through the fridge for a beer. Finding one, he unscrewed the cap and took a long swig before regarding his youngest son. "Won't take long," he said as he wiped his mouth with one hand. "Probably will take the weekend. In any event, I'll sign you out of school for a week."

"A week?" Sam asked incredulously. "I'm going to miss an entire section of math!"

John's eyes hardened at Sam. "Eight people were hacked to death and eaten by someone they loved and trusted. And you're worried about math?"

Sam flushed and dropped his eyes to stare at the floor. "Whatever," he mumbled.

John eyed Sam while he took another drink from his beer bottle. "Go pack," he ordered.

Sam didn't look up as he dutifully walked to his room to start packing.

Dean hung up the phone and turned to his father with a grin on his face. "Caleb heard about it on the radio. Says he was just thinking the same thing. He's all set to meet at Bobby's house in two days. We gotta hurry."

John nodded approvingly at Dean. "Good. Go help your brother pack."

* * *

Sam sat in the back of the Impala, leaning his head against the door and drawing lines through the fogged up window. It had rained for almost the entire trip, only adding to Sam's current misery. His father regarded him in the rear view mirror.

"I need you on this one, Sammy."

Sam continued drawing stick figures with happy faces on the window. "I bet," he grumbled.

* * *

Sam grimaced as they exited the vehicle. Bobby's place was a pigsty. Vehicles that had been gutted or smashed to a quarter of their normal size were littered throughout the yard. The front porch of the house looked like it might disintegrate at any given moment. The exterior paint was chipping away, practically moulding before Sam's eyes. While his dad and brother practically skipped up the porch to bang on the screen door, Sam hovered by the Impala with his hands in his pockets and doing his best to ignore the rain that had suctioned his hair against his forehead. When the screen door opened and Bobby shook hands with John and half-hugged Dean, Sam resigned himself to his fate with rolled eyes and a disgusted sigh. He pushed himself away from the Impala and slowly walked up to the house, nodding at Bobby with a forced smile as he entered. Bobby eyed him warily, all too aware of Sam's recent moodiness.

Sam's mood did lighten somewhat at dinner. Bobby wasn't such a bad cook; heads and tails above his dad's cooking in any event. It was probably the first time he had tasted vegetables in over a month. His dad really only knew two food groups: beef and potatoes. Three, if you counted alcohol. Sam studied the green bean on his fork before popping it into his mouth, savouring the taste of melted butter and the warm, crunchy texture of the bean.

"You like those Sammy? Grew 'em right out back." Bobby winked at Sam from across the table.

Sam smiled appreciatively in return. Along with the beans, Bobby had prepared them a feast of grilled salmon and wild rice. Sam wasn't sure if Dean was really taking the time to enjoy it, but from the way his older brother was shovelling away forkfuls of food off his plate, Sam supposed that Dean was enjoying it in his own, patented, Dean-sort-of-way. Dean did pause during one huge mouthful to give Bobby a thumb's up. Sam shook his head with a grin.

His mood improved even more after dinner when Caleb showed up to mess up his hair and comment on his ridiculous height. Then he snatched Dean in a headlock and the wrestling match was on. While Bobby and John talked strategy in the kitchen, Sam kept score as Caleb and Dean rolled around on the living room floor trading cheap shots.

"Don't break anything in there!" Bobby yelled.

Sam had to duck as a couch cushion came flying at his head. "We won't!" He called back.

Dean's face was turning red from exertion and lack of oxygen as Caleb tried to choke him out with a sleeper hold. Dean reached around Caleb from behind and began punching him in the thigh, trying to give him a charley horse. Caleb half-yelled and half-sobbed when Dean finally made his mark. The two broke away and remained on the floor, panting and grinning idiotically at each other.

Caleb looked up at Sam, who was sitting on the couch and shaking his head in stern disapproval at the two. "So what's this I hear about you getting a girlfriend?"

Sam's eyes widened in surprise and his mouth fell open while he gasped for some kind of rebuttal. It was only when he noticed that Dean was trying to look as nonchalant as possible that he realized his secret was out and no doubt blabbed to the world care of his brother.

"How'd you know?" Sam asked accusingly.

Dean smirked at him. "Oh please. 'I'm going to a movie with some friends'? Sam, you don't have any friends!"

Sam chucked a cushion at Dean's head. A minute later, John came striding back into the room and eyed all three severely with his hands on his hips. "Clean this place up," he ordered. "Then get your asses in here. We need to talk." Sam stood up, only to have John place a hand on his chest. "You, research. Find out everything you can about the Wendigo."

Sam clenched his jaw and was about to retort but thought better of it. Instead, he nodded at his dad and went to work, tugging on books from Bobby's bookshelves and laying them out on the living room floor. Sitting in the middle of his improvised library, Sam prepared himself for long night of reading.


	12. The Father

_I've been scared many times in my life. I've been so scared that I've shook, cried and when I was younger, wet the bed. But I've never been so scared as I was that day when my brother looked at me and he was no longer my brother._

The voice didn't belong to Dean and it made Sam freeze in his tracks. Sam was unarmed, but his fingers still twitched above an imaginary gun at his hip. John gripped his sawed off shotgun a bit tighter.

"Dean?" Sam asked tentatively.

"I said," Dean began, "that I'm getting awfully hungry." Dean turned around, his eyes gleaming with a new sort of light that was as vicious as it was inhuman. "If I were you, I would run," he warned. "Because right now, I can't think of anything tastier."

"Dean," Sam started, taking a step towards him.

"Sammy, don't move!" John shouted. He had his shotgun raised and pointed directly at his eldest son.

"Dad, we have to do something!" Sam shouted back.

"I know! We will, just stay back Sam!" His father never called him Sam. It was always Sammy. It was only Sam when his dad was really nervous. Sam's entire body halted. He could feel a slight tremble in his abdomen, working its way towards his limbs. He was watching his dad closely, but John kept all of his focus on Dean.

Dean was grinning at both of them, taking slow, confident steps towards them. Caleb raised his handgun until it was level with Dean's face. Bobby did the same with his shotgun, until it was resting beneath his chin. "Get back!" John ordered.

Dean stopped for a moment. "You gonna shoot me dad? You gonna shoot your favourite? How's 'bout you Caleb? You man enough to pull that trigger?"

Caleb's face was a myriad of emotions, from anger and purpose to fear and uncertainty.

John took a slow and purposeful step towards Dean. "You shut the hell up. I know what you are. I know how to take you out."

Dean's head snapped back as he released a throaty laugh. "Do you now, old man! Well I got some news for you then." He stared at his father, fixing him with a cheshire grin. "Shotgun ain't hardly gonna do it."

He rushed both his father and Caleb, forcing the shotgun up with his forearm while smacking Caleb in the nose with his left palm. The shotgun went off, booming through the roof and leaving a gaping hole in its wake. Bobby hesitated, and was left with a dislocated jaw because of it. John was up in an instant, swinging a fist at Dean's face but missing when Dean ducked under it. Caleb was staggering, holding a hand underneath his jaw to catch the flow of blood coming from his nose. He still had his handgun and aimed it at the Winchesters.

"Caleb, don't!" Sam screamed.

Caleb's eyes flitted to where Sam stood. Dean tripped John, then rushed Caleb. "Yeah Caleb, don't," he imitated as he bodychecked Caleb into a side table, the weight of the two toppling it over and sending both men to the floor in a heap of flying limbs. Dean was sitting on Caleb, pounding him with a flurry of fists until Caleb stopped fighting and lay limp beneath him. John came behind Dean and tried to grab him in a headlock.

Dean roared with laughter as he stood up from where Caleb lay, John's arms firmly entrenched around his neck. "Good one, pappy!" He yelled exuberantly. He backed up quickly, sending another round table flying, but continuing until John's back collided painfully with a bookcase. John gasped in surprise, but held tight. Dean took a step forward, then pushed all of weight backwards with John taking the brunt of the bookcase in his back. John squeezed his eyes shut against the pain as he focused on strengthening the hold he had on his son's neck. Dean rammed him against the bookcase again and again.

"Dean, no!" Sam yelled. Sam rushed forward, only to receive Dean's steel-toed boot in the gut. Sam went down, cradled in on himself as he watched his brother try to crush his father against the wall.

With a pained gasp, John's arms limply fell away from Dean's neck. Dean gave one final shove for good measure before calmly striding away from the bookcase where his father's body fell into an unconscious heap. Dean walked towards Sam, nudging his little brother onto his back with a nonchalant foot.

"Dean, listen to me. You're not yourself-" Sam pleaded, until Dean's boot came down on his neck and choked off his air. Sam struggled wildly, grasping Dean's boot with both hands while his legs kicked at the ground, trying to give himself some leverage so he could shove Dean away. But Dean barely took notice. The boot continued to crush down on Sam's windpipe.

Sam's face was red and his eyes were wild. "Dea-…don't…don't do this…" he gasped.

Dean smiled down at him. "What are you talking about Sammy? I'm being nice. Would you prefer I just ate you alive?"

Tears streamed down Sam's face as he wheezed and gagged, recognizing that he was about to lose his most important battle. Blackness formed around the edges of his vision, then blurriness. The last thing he saw was Dean smiling at him while increasing the pressure on his neck.

The last thing he heard was an incredible boom, sort of like the one a shotgun makes when it's discharged far too close for comfort.

* * *

When Sam woke up, he was groggy and in pain. He took stock of his surroundings, noting with some interest that he was lying on the couch in Bobby's living room and not being slowly digested in his brother's stomach like he thought he would be. He tried swallowing, and instantly regretted it as his throat seemed to concave on itself. Tears sprang to his clenched eyes while he gingerly touched his neck. Seemed to be relatively intact.

"Take it easy Sammy," someone said.

Sam slowly opened his eyes and found Caleb leaning over him, checking him out with concern. "Don't try to talk either. If you want, I'll grab you some ice. That might help with the pain."

Sam studied Caleb carefully, noting the bruises and swelling all over his face. One eye was completely swollen shut and his upper lip was so puffy it looked like he'd been stung by bees. Sam grimaced in sympathy. Then he frowned seriously, an obvious question forming in his mind.

"What-" he started and stopped abruptly, holding his throat and squeezing his eyes shut in agony.

"What the hell did I just say?" Caleb said as he rose up and walked into the kitchen. He came back with a glass full of ice water and a straw. He handed the glass to Sam. "Drink slowly," he ordered.

Sam obeyed this time, taking small sips and dreading the act of swallowing. He passed the glass back to Caleb, who placed it on the table beside the couch. Sam glanced around the room, saw that it was somewhat tidier than he had last seen it, although the bookcase was completely trashed and one of the tables was leaning against the wall as it was missing a leg. Caleb noticed his movement and took a look around the room too.

"Don't worry kiddo. Everyone's still alive." He turned to Sam who fixed him with a fearful stare. "Including Dean," Caleb finished.

Sam visibly relaxed, but still prodded Caleb to continue with his eyes. "Bobby managed to get Dean off of you with a round of salt. Didn't take him out, but at least got him off his feet for a bit. Long enough for Bobby to knock him out and chain him up downstairs. Your dad had to take Bobby to the hospital to get his jaw wired shut. Looks like you're not gonna be the only mute for awhile."

Caleb smiled at Sam, but Sam was busy digesting it all. Caleb patted his arm. "Get some rest. Your dad should be home soon. In the morning, I'll blender you up some breakfast."

* * *

Sam was desperate to talk to his father for once and therefore found his current predicament even more frustrating than he could ever have imagined. John all but ignored Sam, instead going over routines with Caleb and Bobby on who would check up on Dean. Bobby couldn't say anything either, but Bobby never said that much to begin with, although he occasionally rolled his eyes at a bad joke from Caleb. Sam desperately wanted to see Dean; a couple of times he tried to accompany John and Bobby when they went into the basement, only to be physically pushed back and told to stay upstairs.

For the next few days, Sam did what he could to pass the time by reading books, taking walks outside with Bobby's dogs, and avoiding any sort of food that had to be sipped through a straw. One night, his father was snoring on the couch in the first attempt at a good night's rest. Bobby had retired to his room upstairs. Caleb was leaning on the table reading some sort of rifle magazine. Sam was sitting on the floor in the living room, reading another one of Bobby's dusty old books.

He thought he heard something; a keening whine from an animal. He looked up sharply, but noticed that neither Caleb or his dad seemed to notice. He heard it again and realized that it was coming from the basement. He knew it was his brother.

Silently, he stood up from his spot in the living room, watching Caleb closely as he crept around the couch and tip-toed to the door that led to the basement. He turned the handle painfully slow, then tried to distribute his weight as evenly as possible on the old stairs so they wouldn't creak. He could hear the jangle of chains clinking against each other and the same moaning sound he heard from the living room.

"Dean," he said hoarsely, his throat still not letting him talk above a whisper.

The moaning stopped abruptly. "Sam?" A grating voice called out quietly.

Sam came around to face Dean. He was slumped on the floor, with his hands chained above him and a chain around his chest securing him to the concrete wall behind him. His face was grimy and bruised; his lips were splitting from being so chapped. He squinted at Sam.

"Sammy? That you?" He asked gruffly.

Sam nodded and crouched in front of Dean. "Yeah, it's me Dean. Are you okay?"

Dean barked out a laugh that was half a cough. "You kidding? Do I look okay?"

Sam studied him. "Is it out of you?"

Dean eyed Sam seriously. "I think so. I can't feel it anymore. Sammy, you gotta get me out of here. They aren't even giving me water. I think they're trying to kill me."

Sam shook his head. "No, no they're not. They're trying to help you."

Dean rattled his chains at Sam in frustration. "Didn't you hear me Sam? They're not even giving me water!"

Sam sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. "Do you want me to get you some water?"

Dean nodded gratefully at Sam. "Could you? Thanks man. There's a tap over there." Dean jutted his chin out to the side.

Sam found an overturned jar on the floor and washed it out to fill it with clean water. He brought the filled jar over to Dean and sat in front of him. Dean smiled at him and opened his mouth expectantly. Sam stood so he could get in closer to his brother. Just as he was about to tip the water into his brother's mouth, a voice stopped him.

"Sam." Caleb's curt voice jolted Sam. The jar jumped and spilt water on his brother's chest.

"Aw, great," Dean mumbled.

Sam turned to Caleb. Caleb was on the stairs, glaring at Sam. "Get away from him," he growled.

Sam stood up and tried to reason with Caleb. "But I was only giving him-"

"Now!" Caleb barked. Sam put the jar down by Dean's feet and slowly walked towards Caleb. Caleb eyed him sternly as he walked passed him. Then Caleb turned to his friend, chained to the wall.

"What were you gonna do, Dean?"

Dean shrugged with a grin. "Dunno. But I hear the cheeks are the best meat on the body."

Caleb said nothing as he turned away and closed the door to the basement. Sam was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. Caleb laid a hand on his shoulder. "You know why we couldn't let you see him, right?"

Sam couldn't meet Caleb's eyes with his own. A hot mix of shame and embarrassment at being caught prevented him from doing so. Instead, he stared at one of the walls beside Caleb.

"It's because he knows what your weakness is, Sam. Just like the rest of us do."

Sam looked up at Caleb with questioning eyes. Caleb smiled at him, but his eyes held a note of sadness.

"It's Dean."


	13. Impala

_My brother should have been a racecar driver. Maybe he was in a previous life. In any event, if this wasn't the life set out before him, he should be driving racecars or be a stunt driver for movies. He's really that good._

The tires squealed in protest as Dean took another sharp turn, yanking on the wheel and accelerating at the same time. Sam was knocked roughly against the window, but the adrenaline pumping in his veins allowed him to ignore any pain. Dean was focused on the road and nothing else, eyes so intent that Sam thought he might be trying to gain X-ray vision. Occasionally, Dean would glance into the rear-view mirror and his side mirror, but other than that he kept his eyes firmly on the road, both hands glued to the steering wheel.

Sam, on the other hand, turned himself completely around in the seat to see out the back of the window. "Still behind us!" He announced to his brother, eyes wide and fear making drops of perspiration trickle down the sides of his head.

"Yeah, ya think?!" Dean yelled back.

Sam gripped the back of the seat, mesmerized by the pulsating thing behind them. "Holy crap," he breathed. "That is one ugly mother. I think you pissed it off."

"Tell me about it," Dean replied. "Oh, and by the way? I am never eating eggs again."

"Ditto," Sam said, right before the passenger side window exploded into a thousand pieces and littered his jeans with shards of glass. Dean swerved in the opposite direction, letting loose a few expletives that were colourful and creative, even for Dean.

"What the hell was that?!" Dean shouted at Sam.

Sam was brushing glass off his legs. "Tentacle."

"You've got to be kidding me," Dean breathed.

Sam was peering over the back of his seat again. "Nope. Dean, uh, we're going to have to go faster."

"For crying out loud Sam, I can't put her into hyperdrive!" Even so, Dean pushed the pedal as far down as it would go.

"Well, you're gonna have to try," Sam said breathlessly. "Dean, it's doing something. It's like, mutating or something, 'cause there are some nasty little things-"

Before he could finish there was a thump on top of the car. Both Sam and Dean looked up with wide eyes. "Do I wanna know?" Dean whispered. Sam shook his head in silent reply, all the while grabbing the shotgun that had been left at his feet and pumping it slowly. He was still staring up at the roof when something pierced through it, closely resembling a grossly oversized stinger.

"Oh hell no!" Dean screamed. "You did not just stick that thing in my baby!"

The stinger was wedged in the roof, dripping some sort of gelatinous fluid onto the floor. The stinger was wiggling back and forth, trying to extricate itself. Sam waited patiently until the stinger retracted before aiming the shotgun through the hole and blasting the thing's head off.

Dean's right ear rang violently. "Damn it Sammy! Warn a guy before doing that!"

Sam's ears were also ringing. "Huh?" He asked.

Dean didn't have time to reiterate; a giant appendage had just come down in front of them. Dean had time to let loose a wordless cry of surprise before slamming on the brakes and turning the wheel sharply to spin the car around so it was facing the opposite direction. Then the Impala began to race back in the direction they had been coming from.

"Uh, Dean?" Sam questioned. "Dude, isn't that kind of heading towards its…"

Dean shot a quick grin at Sam. "Can you honestly tell its head from its ass?"

Sam's eyebrows quirked upwards in response as he pursed his lips. "Guess not," he admitted.

Dean's lopsided grin remained. "Didn't think so." He glanced over at the shotgun in Sam's hands. "Keep that thing ready. We're gonna need it."

Sam gulped at Dean's words but nodded anyway. He trusted Dean's instincts. He didn't look forward to whatever he had in store, but it was probably a helluva lot better than being squashed by some oversized version of Cthulhu's mother.

The Impala raced under tentacles and limbs while a deafening screech made the boys wince at the assault on their ears. Sam's head was whipping back and forth, watching the road in front but also keeping an eye on the beast's legs that seemed moments from crushing them.

"Dean, what do you have planned?" Sam asked quietly.

"Patience, Sammy." Dean replied. "You'll know soon enough."

When Dean felt that there was enough distance put between them and the demon, he slammed on the brakes and put the Impala in park. With an urgent glance at Sam, they both exited the car and ran towards the trunk. The road was trembling beneath their sneakers as the thing took a gallop towards them. Sam raised his shotgun, which seemed so puny in comparison to the demon barrelling down the road. Dean opened the trunk and dug around inside, quite calmly given the circumstances.

"Dean, any day now…" Sam suggested. "What are you looking for?"

Dean was wrestling with something large in the trunk. "Remember that present I promised myself awhile back?"

Sam's face visibly paled. "You didn't."

Dean tugged out a 1970's Russian rocket powered grenade launcher from the trunk and dropped an end on his shoulder as he squinted an eye through the sight. "Oh, but I did."

Sam's hand was trembling on his shotgun. The demon was reaching towards them with its tentacles and opening its gaping jaw. "You really think that's gonna work?!" he screamed incredulously.

Dean shrugged. "Only one way to find out."

The grenade launcher fired with a hiss and both Dean and Sam watched slack-jawed as a skinny line of smoke foretold the grenade's journey into the demon's mouth. The demon closed its mouth around the grenade and seemed to swallow. After a brief hesitation where no one, not even the demon moved, a low growl emitted from the depths of the demon's torso. Then its head exploded, showering Dean and Sam with gelatinous purple slime and chunks of green flesh.

"Boom shakka lakka!" Dean whooped.

Sam took his time turning his head to glare murderously at his brother. Dean was bouncing on his toes, oblivious to the goo that was covering both him and Sam. He finally looked at Sam, grinning wildly. Sam refused to see the joy in the moment.

Dean reached over to wipe a chunk of something off of Sam's eyebrow. "You got a little something-"

Sam swatted his hand away impatiently. Behind them, the headless corpse of the demon fell over with a ground-shaking thud.


	14. Drive

_I shouldn't be writing this (hell, I shouldn't be writing any of this), but even my dad doesn't know about this one. If he did, Dean's backside would have the imprint of my dad's steel-toed boot branded on it._

What was that saying, Sam wondered. The road to hell is paved with good intentions? He was pretty sure their current predicament qualified as such. They needed medical supplies and lots of it. Caleb was presently bleeding out on Pastor Jim's couch and both Pastor Jim and John were working furiously to staunch the blood loss. John curtly ordered Dean and Sam to get medical supplies. Without asking the obvious question ("how?"), the boys stole a glance at each other and ran out of the house and into the Impala.

The closest hospital was at the edge of town, right behind a senior citizen's home and beside a tractor dealership. It was small, but that could be a benefit depending on how you looked at it. They were both sufficiently covered in blood that it wouldn't be hard to get in looking authentic. "You're the victim," Dean announced.

Sam frowned. "Why? Why is it always me?"

"Because you don't have a record. Lets keep it that way."

They pulled up to the front with Dean hauling Sam out of the car, who did a wonderful job pretending that he was mere minutes away from haemorrhaging to death. "I need help over here!" Dean shouted at the front entrance. Wide-eyed nurses came jogging up, and a large orderly took Sam from Dean's care and placed him on a gurney. Sam moaned dramatically for effect while Dean thoughtfully let the nursing staff take over. One nurse grabbed Dean by the shoulder and tried to shove an insurance form into his hands. Dean shrugged her off. "I have to call my dad; he doesn't know," he explained. He asked for directions to the nearest pay phone, then took off down the hall.

Finding the supplies closet was easy enough; getting in was a bit trickier. The door was locked so Dean turned his back and waited around the corner until he heard one of the nurses leave the closet. He caught the door just before it closed and quickly entered, locking the door and dropping the blinds behind him. He didn't take long to read the descriptions; he simply grabbed whatever was in front of him and stuffed it into his black backpack. He was just about finished when a pill bottle caught his attention. Pausing to read its contents, he was caught red-handed by a nurse entering the supplies closet. They wore mutual expressions of surprise, followed quickly by the nurse demanding to know Dean's intentions. Dean flashed a toothy smile and then tried to sweet-talk her by asking if she liked long walks and horoscopes. The nurse turned her back and called for security. Dean shrugged. "Guess not."

He physically pushed her aside, making her fall to floor while he galloped down the hall and hollered for Sam.

Sam was laying on a stretcher while a doctor shone a light in his eyes and a nurse was taking his blood pressure when he heard Dean calling his name. Sam sat up and slapped everyone's hands away. "I feel much better now!" He yelled as he hopped off the table and ran out the door behind his brother.

The two dove into the Impala, which Dean had considerately left parked and unlocked in front of the hospital emergency doors. The engine growled to life and Dean wasted no time gunning the car out of the parking lot. He whooped at Sammy as they peeled down the street. "Whoo! That was exciting!"

His grin quickly faded when the tell-tale sounds of sirens made both boys turn in their seats to see behind them. At least three cop cars were approaching in the distance. "Oh shit," Dean whispered.

Sam stared at Dean with wide, fearful eyes. "Dad's gonna kill us."

Dean had to grin at Sam's priorities. "Only if we're caught." The car accelerated with a lurch, heading towards the overpass. Dean hung a sharp right and exited onto the double-lane highway beneath the overpass. The sirens seemed to grow in annoyance, although Dean quickly realized it was because more cop cars had joined the chase.

"Boys in blue are bored around here!" Dean commented. Other cars on the highway slowed down or headed for the shoulder of the road when Dean and six cop cars came barrelling through. "Wonder if they got a chopper too," Dean mumbled.

Sam groaned at the thought. "We are so dead."

Dean smiled as he overtook a senior citizen putzing along in the middle of the highway. "You are so pessimistic Sam! You need to start looking at the bright side of life."

Sam glanced incredulously at Dean. "Which is?" He prompted.

Dean held a finger aloft at Sam. "Which is that the meridian is actually quite shallow here." He jerked violently on the steering wheel, entering the grassy meridian and swinging out onto the other side of the highway, heading back towards their original destination.

Sam kept a watchful eye on the cops as they struggled to get back in the race, some having to brake swiftly and reverse, others getting stuck in the deep valleys when they entered the meridian at too late a juncture. Dean followed the exit ramp back onto the overpass and chose the direction that would take him out into the wooded backroads. He picked out the most innocuous gravel road he could and followed it, making sure that no one was following in his rear-view mirror. Navigating by his keen sense of direction, Dean eventually found his way back to Pastor Jim's ranch house.

Parking the Impala behind the garage rather than in front, Dean and Sam loped up the steps into the house and began dumping the medical supplies out of Dean's backpack and onto the living room floor where an unconscious Caleb lay and John sat hunched over working on him. "Where the hell have you been?" John questioned without looking up.

Dean passed him some fresh gauze. "We tried to take a shortcut. Didn't work out so well."

John looked up and passed a suspicious eye over his boys. His gaze rested on Sam. Sam gulped as he met John's scrutiny. "Worst. Shortcut. Ever."


	15. The Gift

_I remember the first time I saw someone die. I was 13. She was in her 40s and she was afraid._

Sam was crouched in the corner, sheltering his ears from the blasts of gunfire, but he wasn't watching the fight anymore. He couldn't take his eyes off of her, the woman who had been possessed. She was no longer possessed; the demon had been exorcised in a fury of black cloud and bone-rattling screams. Now she was lying on the wood floor, eyes wide and watery, gasping for air through a mangled chest. Her mouth was moving; it was trying to say something, although who she was speaking to was anyone's guess.

Sam began to move towards her, still covering his ears and crying silently. He got close to her head, watching her lips move and trying to read them. He took his shaking hands off his head and leaned his ear over her mouth.

"Tell her…" the woman breathed. "Tell her…" she repeated.

"Tell her what?" Sam asked.

The woman drew glossy eyes onto Sam's tear-stained face. "Tell her…tell her I was never mad at her. Tell her I was proud of her."

Sam nodded. The woman nodded with him. "You'll tell her? Thank you. I never…I just never got…the chance. I should have said it…more often." She was choking again, making wheezing sounds as blood bubbled up in her mouth and spilled over the sides. His dad and brother were still firing their guns and in the back of his mind he knew he should be taking cover and keeping an eye on the action and any potential danger. But instead, he reached out his hand and clutched hers. For a brief moment, she squeezed back and smiled at him with tears trickling down her cheeks. Then her clammy hand went limp. Her eyes stared at nothing, her mouth slack with blood still oozing from it.

There was a new commotion, complete with snapping sounds and the thick stench of smoke, but Sam ignored it. He held onto her until he felt strong hands grasp him under his armpits and haul him up.

"No!" Sam screamed. "No, we have to take her with us!"

"Sammy, the whole place is burning, we have to leave now!" His brother screamed back. His father was dragging him away from the dead woman, and at the same time trying to shelter Sam's face from the smoke. Sam was fighting, dragging his heels on the ground and trying to pry his father's arms away. He was coughing and the smoke made his vision swim with unshed tears.

When his father dumped him into the back seat of the Impala, Sam stopped crying. He couldn't bear to look out the window at the receding cabin burning in the background. Instead, he stared stonily ahead and said nothing all the way back to the motel. His father used the payphone outside the motel to call the police and report the fire. He neglected to mention the woman's body or the other bodies. He hung up curtly when the operator tried to get his name and his whereabouts.

John walked back into the motel and paused at the doorway to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Dean hadn't turned on any lights. John noticed the light coming from the bathroom door. He pushed it open and found Sam sitting on the toilet seat without a shirt on. Dean was wiping away the soot from Sam's face with a warm washcloth. Sam didn't seem to notice.

Dean looked up at his father. "Did you call?"

John nodded.

Dean went back to his work of washing Sam's face. "Did you tell them about-"

John shook his head.

Sam was still staring at the floor.

* * *

They stayed the night and checked out of the motel the next day. They ate breakfast in a truck stop diner down the road, with Dean shovelling eggs and bacon into his mouth at the same time while John sipped his coffee slowly and thoughtfully. Sam was taking small bites of his pancake. He still wasn't talking.

The waitress walked by and topped up John's coffee, then offered him a newspaper. John nodded and thanked her, flipping the paper open while Dean asked if he could have the sports with a full mouth. John gave him a disapproving glare for talking with his mouth full before obliging and tossing him the sports section. John flipped through the newspaper apathetically, until a black and white picture caught his attention. It was the woman they exorcised. John read the caption underneath and the corresponding article, his frown deepening as he read.

Sam was the first to notice. "What is it?"

John looked up in surprise at Sam's soft voice. For a brief moment, he debated whether or not he ought to show Sam the article. With a sigh, John turned the newspaper over to Sam.

"She's been missing for awhile. Her family's having a memorial. They gave up."

Dean stopped chewing and swallowed audibly. Sam's face was grave as he read the article for himself. John watched his youngest son carefully. Finally, Sam looked up at his dad, his face calm but serious.

"Can we go?"

* * *

Dean tugged at his tie and shifted in his suit uncomfortably. "I can't believe you agreed to this," he hissed at his father.

John was about to retort but instead he snorted at Dean's obvious discomfort. "Figured it was 'bout time you learned how to wear a suit."

Dean stopped fidgeting so he could glare at his father.

Sam walked to the stone where the woman's name was engraved. Like the others, he laid a single white rose on it and brushed his finger against the cool slate. Snow was lightly falling, small flakes of crystal landing on the stone and his finger. He took no notice, and straightened. Movement caught his eye and he spotted a young girl leaning against an old oak tree that always seemed to be found in cemeteries. Her hair was dyed black and her skin was pale. She wore too much eye make-up and had a nose piercing. She covered her chest protectively with her arms, but she wasn't crying. She was staring at the grave marker and ignoring everyone who walked past. Sam approached her.

"Hi," Sam said.

Her eyes briefly flickered over him before going back to the gravestone. Sam shoved his hands in his pockets. "Was she your-"

"Mother," the girl finished.

Sam nodded and felt his throat tighten. "She loved you," he whispered.

The girl looked up and for the first time Sam saw tears form in her eyes. "You didn't even know her," the girl said accusingly.

Sam shook his head. "No, not really. But I knew her for a little while. You were the one she talked about."

The girl rolled her eyes as the unshed tears finally spilled from them. She wiped them away impatiently as she turned to walk away. "You don't even know what you're talking about."

"She said she was proud of you," Sam called after her.

The girl stopped dead in her tracks. She turned and stared at Sam, judging his words. Sam was crying, pleading with his eyes. She inhaled deeply and shook her head. She turned on her heel and began to walk away.

_"_She would never say that."


	16. Mad World

_

* * *

_

We used to live in a city that had a river running through it. There was a bridge that ran over it for both cars and pedestrians. In the winter, the river would begin to freeze and huge ice chunks would crash into each other below the bridge. The sound would grate on your ears, and yet you couldn't look away.

His father had yelled at him, called him irresponsible. Caleb had joined in, insinuating that he was selfish. Dean just looked disappointed, which broke Sam's resolve more than his father's yelling ever could. Sam was 14 and moody. Obviously, this conversation would end well.

John threw his hands in the air and turned away from the table. Caleb shook his head. Dean sighed. Sam slouched in his chair with his arms folded protectively over his chest. When he began to feel the sting of tears, he kicked his chair over and stalked off to the bathroom.

"What the hell is wrong with him?" John questioned exasperatedly.

Caleb shrugged. "He's a teenager. He'll get over it."

Dean stood up. "I'll talk to him."

He heard Caleb mutter "SuperDean to the rescue," to which he flipped the bird over his shoulder and heard Caleb chuckle.

Dean knocked on the bathroom door but received no reply. "Can I come in?" He asked. Again, he received no reply. "I'm gonna take that as a yes," Dean decided. He opened the door slowly, fully expecting something to be thrown at his head and was pleasantly surprised when nothing did. Sam was sitting on the floor by the tub, with one side facing away from Dean.

"You okay?" Dean asked.

Sam shrugged and studied his hands.

Dean took a seat on the toilet. "What's going on with you? You've been different ever since we left Baltimore."

Sam blinked and stared in stony silence at the wall beside his brother.

"Did that jumper scare you that bad?" Dean asked.

Sam's face paled. "She didn't jump," he whispered.

Dean's head snapped up. "What?"

Sam shrugged. "Nothing."

Dean shook his head and rested his hands on his knees. "You gotta let it go Sam. These things will eat you up if you keep going like this."

"I should have done something," Sam mumbled.

Dean smiled sadly at his brother. "You can't save everyone Sammy."

Sam looked up with wide eyes into his brother's face. Dean waited for him to say something, until his jaw dropped in surprise. Dean was off the toilet in a heart's beat, grabbing at the towel on the wall and smothering the lower half of Sam's face in it.

Startled, Sam tried to get up off the floor only to have Dean push him down with one hand on his shoulder. "Dean, what-"

Dean removed the towel and held it in front of Sam's eyes. A bright red splotch was stark against the bleached whiteness of the towel. "Your nose is bleeding," Dean explained.

Sam traced a finger under his nose and held it in front of his eyes. Sure enough, fresh blood ran down his fingertips. Dean replaced the towel back on Sam's face and placed a hand on the back of Sam's head.

There was a soft rap on the door. John poked his head around the door and paused when he saw Dean crouched in front of Sam with a bloody towel. "Everything okay?" John asked quietly. Sam did everything he could to avoid looking up at his father. John took note of it subconsciously.

Dean shot his father a quick glance. "Nosebleed. It's not bad."

Seemingly satisfied with the answer, John nodded and backed away. Sam looked up at Dean with wide, grateful eyes. Dean grinned back.

"Don't worry about a thing, Sammy. I got your back."

* * *

Sam had strongly disagreed with his father's analysis of their latest hunt, which is what started the next fight. John surmised that the thing they were chasing would be found in the woods. Sam shook his head defiantly and insisted that his father was being shortsighted; that maybe the thing they were chasing wasn't a demon at all and perhaps it was trying to tell them something. Tempers flared, egos inflated and the conversation ended in a series of shouts and accusations that had nothing to do with the actual hunt. By the end of it, Sam was banished to his room while the rest put on their jackets and winter boots and headed out to the vehicle.

As soon as he heard them drive away, Sam left his bedroom and slumped onto the couch in the living room to watch television. He flipped through the channels mindlessly, finally settling on the local channel that was showing the dinnertime news. It was getting close to Christmas and the achingly perky reporter was standing in front of the bridge, announcing the festival of lights that was to happen later that night when the mayor of the city would flick on the fake panel box that would light up the whole city in garishly bright Christmas lights, including the bridge. The reporter was listing where traffic would be closed off for the festival, glancing down at her clipboard and then smiling into the camera as she interacted with the anchors back at the station. Sam was about to flip off the television with a roll of his eyes when he froze. A thought began to form in his mind and the more clear it became, the more he felt an icy coldness seep into his stomach.

* * *

John impatiently dug around in his jacket pocket with one hand while trying to steer the Bronco with the other. Finally fishing out his cellphone, he flipped it open and jammed it against his ear.

"What?" he answered gruffly.

"Dad, you have to come back!" Sam's urgent voice cut out from the cellphone. "I think it's trying to warn us about something; there's this festival and everyone is going to be on the bridge, and-"

"Samuel, I believe we've already had this conversation and what the hell are you doing watching television when you're supposed to be grounded in your bedroom?"

"But dad!" came Sam's desperate cry.

"No Sam," his father cut him off. "You'll do as you're told and then you and I are going to have a chat about your attitude when I get back home." John snapped the phone shut.

Sam sighed dramatically as he replaced the phone back onto the receiver. He leaned against the kitchen counter, one hand cupping his chin and the other drumming his fingers on the counter while he debated his options. Gathering his courage and already forming his defensive arguments for when his father found out about his indiscretion, Sam ran over to the closet and began dressing for the cold winter weather.

* * *

"Was that Sammy?" Dean asked from the backseat.

John glanced into the rear-view mirror at his son before nodding. Dean turned back to look out the window. "He still think this thing's trying to warn us about something?"

John snorted in reply.

Dean turned to stare at the back of his father's head. "What if he's right?"

John didn't say anything but shook his head in disbelief. Caleb shot a wearied glance at John as well. A war began to rage in the pit of John's stomach. His pride fought against his instincts, and soon he found that a gnawing doubt was growing in the back of his mind.

"Sonofabitch," John growled before slamming on the brakes. Dean and Caleb both braced themselves against the unexpected jolt. The Bronco slid to a halt on the packed snow of the highway. Then it did a U-turn and headed back down the road towards the small city it came from.

* * *

Sam's long, gangly legs loped towards the slow-moving crowd of families headed onto the bridge. For a moment he paused beneath the green iron bars that criss-crossed each other on either side of the double-lane bridge. Then he looked down at the concrete pillars that held the bridge up and the chunks of ice that smashed into the pillars and each other as they slowly bobbed along the wide, dark river. Dread was forming in the back of his spine. '_What would Dean do_?' he wondered. In an instant, he knew what Dean would do and he set his face in grim determination. He melted in with the crowd and walked onto the bridge.

The people on the bridge were happy; smiling and bouncing on their toes in anticipation of the spectacle of Christmas lights. In a park across from the bridge, the mayor was standing on a small stage in front of a podium with a microphone. He looked dapper in his long, black wool coat, with a red scarf tucked underneath and rubbing his black leather gloves together. He was balding and wasn't wearing a hat. 'Must be cold to look that stylish,' Sam thought absently. Sam himself was improperly dressed; his bare hands were jammed into his pockets and he shivered against the chill.

The people were singing; some Christmas carol that Sam knew he should probably recognize but he didn't. The mayor was waving his hands around as if conducting the singers. Sam glanced to the small family at his right. A young, blond mother wearing a red knit cap and a warm parka was singing to the small daughter in her arms, who didn't know the words and instead played with the toggle on her mother's coat. The father was holding his daughter's hand and had his arm around his wife's shoulders. A pang of longing hit Sam.

The mayor started counting down into the microphone and the people on the bridge joined him. When "1" was shouted out, the mayor used both hands to pull up a large lever in a metal box beside the podium. White and multi-coloured sets of lights began to light up all over the city. The bridge was the last, and lights illuminated the once-dark bridge. Families whooped and children stood in awe of the twinkling lights surrounding them. For a brief moment, Sam let himself be taken in as well. Then he began to walk along the bridge, searching for something that no one else would be looking for.

'_Where are you_?' Sam urgently thought. He was walking quickly, ignoring the shivers that racked his body and the snow that was falling lightly onto his hair. He was pausing to peer down into the water, walking from side to side and then looking up into the rafters. He looked back at the way he came, where the majority of people were gathered still listening to the mayor and enjoying how the city looked from their particular vantage point. He looked back towards the other side of the bridge, where the city ended and the highway led towards the looming mountains in the distance.

Red eyes blinked back at him. Sam jumped back and froze, hypnotized by the thing in front of him. It was perched upon one of the metal bars, clinging to it like an oversized bird. Sam couldn't make out the full figure, but guessed that it had to be close to his own height, with a full set of limbs and endowed with long, leathery wings. It was completely black, and blended in with the dark sky. Sam calmed his fear and studied the creature.

"What do you want?" Sam asked quietly.

The thing cocked its head at Sam and blinked again. Then it looked past Sam. Sam turned, following its eyesight to the entrance of the bridge where everyone stood. Sam's forehead creased in confusion. "What? What is it?" Sam asked hopelessly.

He turned back to the creature and now found that its head was peering downwards. Sam also looked down. Then he heard the creaking. His eyes widened and he quickly glanced back up into the thing's perfectly calm face. "Oh God," he breathed.

* * *

"Wonder what this city's utility bills are like," Caleb muttered with his mouth agape as he took in every street lit up with lights. John was doing everything he could save running over the scores of pedestrians as he raced from block to block, growling swears under his breath whenever he had to stop for another freakishly joyful family crossing the street.

"Turn left dad, the bridge is south," Dean said.

"I know where the damn bridge is!" John barked back.

Dean sunk lower into his seat and gave up on giving any more helpful tidbits.

* * *

"You have to get off the bridge!" Sam yelled as he pushed through the crowd. "You have to get off the bridge right now!"

People were pushing him back, frowning at him and yelling at him for disrupting their festivities. He hollered even louder, waving his arms for emphasis. The family that he had been standing by turned around, their faces registering confusion at his antics. The husband bade his wife to wait while he approached Sam cautiously.

"What's your problem buddy?" The man said gently.

Sam grabbed him by the shoulders and looked squarely into his face. "You have to get your family off this bridge right now. It's going to collapse."

The man's eyes widened before he cocked his head at Sam with uncertainty in his frown. "How do you know this?"

Sam shook his head. "Look, there's no time. Please, just trust me, this bridge-"

A loud, inhuman groan silenced the crowd instantly. A sharp squeal signalled the twisting of metal, followed by the grating sound of concrete blocks rubbing against one another. The hard purchase beneath Sam's feet shuddered.

That was all it took for the large group of families to scream and stampede away from the centre of the bridge. The man beside Sam ran back for his family and Sam ran with them, clutching the woman's shoulder with one hand as he looked behind him. The metal above his head was groaning, swaying unnaturally. Then the entire middle section of the bridge buckled and collapsed, dragging down the remaining sections with it. Sam charged onwards, feeling with every footfall the tentative stability in the bridge's remaining sections. He could see the end coming up, but when the ground beneath him shook violently, he knew it was too late.

* * *

The Bronco came to a sliding halt at the park where the mayor had given his speech. Streams of people were running in a panic past the SUV. John pushed them aside as he and the others ran towards the bridge. John was running ahead of Caleb and Dean, an extreme sense of panic kick starting the adrenaline in his blood to make his legs pump harder.

He could see Sam; the boy's recent growth spurt had made him nearly as tall as John. He could see Sam's head bobbing above the crowd, but still towards the back as the sea of people surged forward in a mass effort to get off the bridge. John cupped his hands around his mouth as he hollered out Sam's name.

Then, to his horror, the bridge disappeared before his eyes.

* * *

The screams of falling people overtook the booming sound of metal, wood and concrete plummeting into the icy river below. Sam had time to get his feet beneath him and wave his arms in the air to slow his descent before his body hit the water. It took a second for the shock of the unendurable cold to hit his body's nerves. He surfaced with a scream, floundering with his arms to keep his head above the water. He looked behind him and immediately paddled forwards when he saw the rest of the bridge collapsing in a heap in the water. People were trapped beneath it, and others were already floating past him limply. He heard a pitiful scream beside him and saw the mother who had ran with him, desperately doing all she could to keep the crying toddler out of the water. Sam swam towards her, and took her daughter in one hand while he held onto the woman's coat with the other.

"I've got you!" Sam yelled. The woman nodded, or maybe it was a violent shiver. The river's current began to pull them along quickly. "Swim for the shore! Try to get on the ice!" Sam instructed. The woman kicked her legs and doggy-paddled beside Sam.

The bridge was gone and John's entire body froze with the realization that his son had gone with it. A strong arm grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. Dean's determined face shook John from his momentarily loss of sense.

"Riverbank," Dean breathed.

The three men broke into a run and headed towards the steep embankment of the river.

Sam latched onto a thick piece of ice that stretched towards the edge of the river. He pushed the screaming toddler onto the ice flow first before heaving the shivering woman onto the ice. "Distribute your weight," Sam said through a chattering jaw. "Crawl on your belly until you reach the shore." The woman looked back and nodded mutely, then pulled herself along the ice with one hand while dragging her daughter with the other. Sam watched them go, waiting in the water and hanging onto the ice desperately against the strong current of the river. People were climbing down the embankment, reaching out for survivors. A crowd had gathered where the woman was heading, some of them were stretching their bodies out on the ice and holding out their hands for the woman to take. As soon as one hand reached her sleeve, she was quickly pulled in; a group had formed around her and were passing her to others who were waiting to pull her up the side of the river. Her daughter was similarly passed around; still screaming bloody murder which Sam decided was a good thing.

"Come on kid!" An old man in a rabbit-skin hat yelled at him.

Gathering his waning strength, Sam pulled himself onto the ice.

* * *

A group of people had gathered downstream, shouting for medical help and yelling encouragement. John paused as paramedics rushed by him and scooped up a dazed woman in a red coat and her wailing toddler. The people were still yelling and something in John made him leap down the steep dirt.

To his immense relief yet growing panic, he spotted Sam trying to pull himself out of the freezing river. "Sam!" He yelled.

He couldn't be sure if his son heard him. Sam seemed to pause half way out of the river. John couldn't be sure if it was because his strength was leaving him or if it was something else.

* * *

Sam heard a snap first, then a groaning creak. He stopped pulling himself out of the water, took one quick, scared look at the people reaching out for him and sucked in as much air as he could when the ice gave way beneath his body.

He couldn't find up; the water turned him limb over limb and his chest burned for air. He flailed his arms around and panicked when he hit an unyielding ceiling of ice. The blood pumped wildly in his veins as Sam truly began to doubt his chances of survival. Then his head unexpectedly popped out of the water like a child's bath toy and he gulped down his first breath of air and water. His back hit something hard, and without thinking, he swung himself around and grabbed onto whatever it was.

The sheet of ice was thick and it stretched to the edge of the river. He looked confusedly about him, wondering where all the people had gone. He spotted flashlights further upstream; probably in the same place where he had been moments before. He tried to yell and found that he had no voice. Even forming the words in his mind was a sluggish process. He supposed that he should probably try to get on this piece of ice, but when he pushed down with his elbows, his legs refused to kick. Sam stared at the ice, unsure of what to do next.

* * *

"Sam!" John screamed when his son's head disappeared beneath the ice. Gasps and frantic yells similarly rang out from the group of people trying to help.

Caleb was tugging on his arm and pointing downstream. "Come on!"

Numbly, John followed Caleb and Dean as they raced along the unstable edge, focused on the river and stumbling over rocks and branches because of it. Caleb paused, scanning the water for any sign of Sam.

"There!" Dean yelled. He was pointing to a sheet of ice not far from where they were standing. "Sammy!"

The trio slid down the embankment and edged towards the ice. "We need rope," John said. "Someone go back and get some rope. Get the paramedics while you're at it."

Caleb mumbled a response and clawed his way back up, shouting as he went.

"Sammy!" John yelled. Sam was staring at the ice, frost forming in his hair and his skin taking on a shockingly pale colour. He took no notice of his father. "Sam!" His father barked.

Sam slowly lifted his head and blinked groggily at his family. Dean was flexing his fingers, practically bouncing on his feet in a need to get to his brother. John was keeping a restraining hand on Dean's chest; sensing the irrationality building in Dean that could place both his sons in danger.

"Sam, kick your legs!" John ordered. When Sam made no attempts at movement, John hollered more forcefully. "Kick your legs, damn it!"

The rippling in the water behind Sam's body foretold the slow scissoring of Sam's legs. John nodded approvingly. "That's good son," he said quietly.

Caleb was back, scurrying down the slope with a group of firefighters and bystanders. The firefighters muscled their way to the front of the pack. One had a slim line of nylon rope that he was tying an end of into a lasso. "Tell him to catch this," he ordered John calmly. Then he got down on his torso, inching himself out onto the ice while his partner secured his legs.

"Sammy, you need to catch this, okay? Just grab onto it," John yelled.

Sam's painfully slow reflexes watched the lasso as it sailed gracefully in the air and landed in front of him. His arm shakily reached out and pulled an end towards him.

"Put both hands in it and hang on son," the fireman called to him. "We'll pull you in. Let us do the work."

Sam's befuddled mind took time processing what the fireman was trying to get him to do. He finally put both hands into the lasso and gripped the nylon cord. The fireman pulled and Sam barely felt the tightening of the knot around his wrists. His body was inching forward, slowly grating against the sheet of ice as it was pulled on top of it. Finally free of the water, Sam's body reacted violently, shivering uncontrollably until Sam thought he might be having seizures.

The fireman was grunting against the strain. Dean's frustration at the slow rescue overcame him. He ran to the side of the firemen and grabbed the line, pulling with extreme effort. John and Caleb gathered behind Dean and started doing the same thing.

Sam's stiff body slid towards them. The fireman at the front of the line grabbed Sam's frozen hands and pulled them out of the nylon. Then he grabbed the collar of Sam's coat and pulled him up. John was beside Sam in an instant, pulling Sam up from behind and wrapping his arms around him. Sam was no longer focused; his half-lidded eyes stared blearily while he gasped in the cold night air. Grey wool blankets were thrown around his body and his head and he felt himself being led towards something, then being pushed down.

He was laying on a stiff board and being secured firmly to it. Blankets were tucked all around him and with a nauseating pull, he felt himself being dragged up the side of the river. Several hands hoisted the stretcher into the warm and overly bright ambulance. He heard the scissors cutting away his wet and frozen clothing, but he could no longer feel anything against his skin. An oxygen mask was placed over his mouth and nose and a paramedic was shining a small light into his eyes.

"It's okay Sammy," he heard someone say. He looked around the ambulance for the source, finally spying his father sitting on a bench behind the paramedic. "It's gonna be okay," he reassured again.

Sam let his eyes drift shut.

* * *

He stayed in the hospital for the entire weekend receiving treatment for hypothermia. The nurses fawned over their little hero who had so bravely plucked a mother and daughter from certain doom while his father sternly ordered that under no circumstances were the media to find out where they were. While initially enjoying the attention, Sam was later disheartened to learn that the daughter's father was never found and was presumed dead, along with all the others who had tumbled downstream or had been crushed by the falling bridge. Still, Dean did all he could to help speed up Sam's healing the only way Dean could.

"Can't believe you get all the nurses and all I get is this pitcher of water," Dean grumbled from the pink hospital chair he was sitting in.

"By the way, could you fill that up?" Sam asked with a sly grin on his face.

Dean shot Sam a death glare before sighing and pushing himself out of the chair. He made his way over to the bathroom and turned on the tap. A minute later, he flicked off the light and walked over to Sam's bed. He filled up the glass on Sam's table and then handed him the plastic cup.

"Here ya go, princess."

Even though he was joking, the smile he gave Sam was sincere. Sam reached for the cup and briefly touched Dean's fingertips. "Thanks."

Dean's smile was a mixture of relief and sadness. "Anytime Sammy."

John walked briskly into the room, holding a bunch of loose sheets in his hand. "Got the Release. We're good to go." He began to gather Sam's clothes from the gym bag he brought, tossing them onto Sam's bed.

"Is Sam good to go?" Dean asked cautiously.

John paused and glanced at Sam. Sam's eyes shifted suspiciously from Dean to John. Settling on John's determined face, Sam blushed and shrugged. "I'm good. Lets get out of here."

Dean exhaled slowly, then unfolded Sam's sweatshirt for him.

* * *

With nothing to hunt and no desire to stay any longer than necessary, the family plus Caleb piled into the Bronco with their meagre belongings and took the back roads out of the small mountain city. Sam was turned around in his seat, his head resting on his arms as he watched the city fade into the distance behind him. The Bronco came to a slow stop at an intersection and John signalled to get onto the highway.

In the tree line, Sam saw two red eyes blink at him.


	17. Where I Stand

_You ask us to write of the future as if any of us can say with certainty what that will bring. I feel like I'm coming to a crossroads and no matter where I turn, it will never be right. For now, I follow my dad like I'm supposed to, but I know it's only a matter of time. Before this school year is done, we'll be gone and you'll never see me again._

Sometimes when he gets off the schoolbus, Sam lingers as long as he possibly can at the end of the muddy road leading to the trailer where he and his brother and his father currently reside. Sometimes he wonders what would happen if he just turned and walked away, hitched a ride with whomever, and went wherever that person was going. But then something funny happens in his chest; he gets this empty feeling like he'd be forgetting something.

Normal does not exist for him. In his heart, he knows it will never exist for him.

Kimberly was waiting by his locker the next day, leaning against it casually with her comforting smile and warm eyes. He smiled back, but it faltered half way through. She caught it instantly and frowned. "What is it? How come you didn't call me last night?"

Sam shrugged as he spun the numbers around on his lock. "I kind of got caught up in other things." In reality, he spent the better part of the night yelling at his father.

She nodded, seeming to understand and letting it go. "So, what do you want to do tonight? Did you want to go see a movie or watch the game? I think a lot of people are going to the game."

Sam paused in the process of grabbing books out of his locker. "I don't think I can go anymore," he said quietly.

Kimberly shrugged. "Well, we don't have to go. We can do something else-"

"No," Sam cut her off. "It's not that I don't want to go, it's that I can't go."

Kimberly cocked her head at him. "Why? Yesterday you were all for it. Did something come up?"

The bell went off and students began emptying out of the hallway in pursuit of their next class. Kimberly was about to walk away when Sam grabbed her hand. "We need to talk," he said urgently.

* * *

They were sitting under a tree on the edge of school property. Sam had his arm around her and she was resting her tear-stained cheek on his chest. "I don't understand," she whispered. "That can't be right. How can he just pack up and leave everything? How can he make you go?"

"I have to," Sam weakly replied.

Kimberly was shaking his head. "But everything you have here…where are you going?"

"I don't know," he said truthfully.

She sat up and stared at him in the face. Sam found it difficult to meet her gaze. "That's bullshit. People don't just pack up and leave to go nowhere."

Sam stared at the grass. "My family does."

She sighed and let her head fall back so she was looking at the sky. "So your family runs. Why? Sam, is your dad is some kind of trouble?"

Sam shook his head quickly. "It's not like that."

Kim thumped her fists on the ground. "Then what is it? Don't you realize how stupid this is? Don't you realize that it doesn't make any sense?"

Sam fixed her with watery eyes. "More than you'll ever know." He wiped at his eyes and then looked away. "Look, I know you don't get this. I can't explain it. Just know that this was never my choice." He got up to leave, jamming his hands in his pockets when she stopped him by tugging on his arm.

"But what about us?"

Sam smiled sadly at her. "I'll never forget you."

He walked away and didn't look back.

She called him that night; she lost count of how many times she tried but the phone kept ringing, never once going to voicemail. She waited by his locker the next day and the day after that. Finally, she checked with the office, eyes desperately wide as the secretary slowly flipped through a stack of unfiled records.

"His dad pulled him out of school two days ago, sweetie." She looked up over her reading glasses and smiled in pity at Kimberly's fallen face. "I'm sorry."


	18. Going

_You have my life in your hands. I know you don't believe a word of it. I know you will call me to your desk after you've read it. You will want to discuss it; you'll want to know why I've written what I have, when you expressly instructed us to write the truth. But maybe, just maybe, something in you will ask "what if?"_

They had handed in their assignments the week before. Today, Ms. Higgins was handing back their marked works. She waited until close to the end of class to hand them out, as she didn't quite relish the thought of hearing groans and disgusted sighs. She went down each row, handing back the papers and offering comments like "good work" or "please use a dictionary next time". She paused when she reached Sam's desk, noting with interest how he refused to meet her gaze.

"See me after class, Mr. Winchester."

Sam ignored the chorus of conspiratorial sounding "ooohs" coming from the rest of the class. He had braced himself for this from the day he made his fateful decision. Slowly, he opened his paper and was surprised to see an A- on the back page.

After the bell sounded and everyone else clamoured to reach the door first, Sam hovered behind, standing patiently by Ms. Higgins' desk with his hands jammed in his pockets while she finished writing something in her daily planner. When she stopped writing, she looked up at Sam and smiled warmly. "Take a seat," she offered.

Sam obediently sat in the desk closest to hers and folded his hands on top of the scarred wood.

Ms. Higgins leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs, studying Sam with a keen eye and absently chewing on the end of her pencil. "How much of this is true?" She finally asked.

Sam faced her stonily. "All of it," he replied.

She strummed her pencil on the desk. "Including the chupacabra? Or the, uh, what was it called? The Winnebago?"

"Wendigo," Sam corrected.

"Wendigo," she repeated. "Ghosts, demon possessions…you expect me to believe all that? You expect me to believe that there are people like you everywhere, who hunt these things for a living?"

Sam stared at his hands. "I wouldn't call it a living."

Ms. Higgins looked away from Sam. "No, I guess I wouldn't either," she murmured. She turned back to Sam and studied him intently. "Sam, if there is something I should be notifying the authorities of, then you need to-"

"Don't get involved," Sam ordered curtly. "I knew you would try. But just don't. You wouldn't be doing me any favours."

Her eyes dropped in resignation. "But Sam, if this is true then it sounds like you don't really want to live this life."

He met her gaze and held it steadily. "I don't have a choice," he answered. "It doesn't matter where I run to. These things are always going to be out there. And I'm always going to notice it because I know what it looks like. You don't believe it, you can't believe it, and you never will until you actually see it." His voice dropped to a mumble. "Even then, you'll probably try to convince yourself that it's…I don't know…swamp gas or something."

Her eyebrows rose. "Swamp gas?"

Sam shrugged. "It's usually something ridiculous like that in the paper. Demons leave a residue of sulphur. The papers will write it up the next day as a pig farm cleaning out its barns. I don't think people realize that there's a pretty big difference between methane and sulphur. Even if they both smell like shit."

Despite herself, Ms. Higgins found herself laughing. Sam was puzzled by her reaction, until he got his own unintentional joke and smiled along. The moment was cut short when she regarded him again with sad eyes. "Sam, I want to believe you," she said as she leaned forward in her chair. Sam dropped his eyes and stared at his hands again. His cheeks were flushed. "I really do," she continued. "But this is just so…" she waved an arm around as she searched for the right words. "Out there," she finally finished. "This simply can't be comprehended. If there are so many of these things in the world, why hasn't anyone else seen them?"

Sam raised his head and frowned at her. "But they do. They do all the time. They just don't know what they're looking at. You probably have too."

She smiled at him and shook her head. "What do you mean?"

Sam shrugged, feeling slightly dumb for mentioning it, but attempted to explain it anyway. "You ever feel like you're not alone when you're in a room and there's no one else there? Or have you ever walked into a place and swore that you could see someone standing there a second ago, but suddenly they're gone? You probably brush those things off as nothing; a trick of the eye or something. But have you ever suddenly felt cold all over for no reason? Or have you ever seen a cat staring at something that's not there?"

Ms. Higgins had her pencil in the air. "It's a cat, Sam. What's so special about that?"

"Cats are pretty good at seeing the dead," Sam said quietly. "Most of the time, these things, these spirits and ghosts and whatever you want to call them aren't harmful. They're just kind of…" Sam searched his brain for the right word. "Lost. But other times, they're really angry and they can't leave this earth completely until they resolve that anger. And if they can't, then we have to make them go away."

"By shooting them with rock salt," Ms. Higgins finished for him.

Sam sighed at the sarcasm in her voice. "I knew you wouldn't believe me."

Ms. Higgins dropped her pencil on the desk and rubbed her forehead with one hand. "It's not that I don't want to believe you Sam, it's just that-"

"You can't." Sam finished.

She gave him a smile that was half pity and half encouragement. Sam's shoulders dropped in defeat. He gathered his backpack and stood up from the desk, slinging it around his shoulders.

"I'll see you in class tomorrow, Sam," she said.

Sam nodded. "Sure."

* * *

She had stayed late to finish marking papers and organize her teaching plan for the next day. She exited her classroom, her heels clicking and echoing in the empty hallways. In the distance, she could hear the zamboni-like machines the janitors used to wax the floors, humming as they vibrated along the moss green laminate floors. Most of the lights in the school had already been turned off and so it came as no shock when she crossed an empty parking lot that only housed her car. The car was slow to turn over; she had to mumble some vague threats at the 20-year old Chrysler to finally get it going. Glancing down at the radio, she grimaced when she saw the time.

"Great. Only 10 more hours until I'm back," she groaned.

The roads were quiet, hardly surprising given that it was a Wednesday night in a small town. She found herself humming along absently to all the songs on the radio to pass the time from the school to her small apartment on the other side of town. The town was small and poor; it didn't spend much of its taxpayers' money on upgrades, including the roads and lights. She found herself squinting in the dark to see past the odd bits of fog that hung in the air, seemingly right at her eye level. One of the tires dipped sharply into a pothole and she swore in surprise at the jolt. She looked to the passenger side mirror to spot the pothole when something flew in front of the car.

She screamed and slammed on the breaks, panting and gripping the steering wheel with arm muscles taut. "What the hell was that?" she asked no one in particular. She slipped the gear into park and undid her seatbelt with shaking hands. Cautiously, she opened the door and stood halfway out, terrified that she was going to see a deer laying in front of her grill, or worse, a person.

"Hello?" she called out quietly. She was straining her neck to see the front of the car and blew a sigh of relief when she didn't spot blood or bones. Without fear, she exited the car completely to take a full look. Confusion was now seeping into her mind as she realized that absolutely nothing was in front of the car or on the sides of the road for that matter. She looked past the car into the empty park where old oak trees stood and round rocks dotted the green grass here and there. With a shiver, she belatedly realized that it wasn't the park but the cemetery she was looking at. "Creepy," she mumbled and was about to get back into the car when a body tackled her.

"Get down!" the voice commanded. She screamed and covered her head waiting for a rock, bullet, grenade, _something_, to go flying over her. But nothing did.

"Who the hell are you? What do you think you're doing, you psycho?!" She screamed at the figure crouched beside her against the car. He was young, wearing a black leather jacket, jeans and army boots and with short blond hair that stood straight up.

"Lady, I'm just trying to save your life," he said in a matter of fact kind of way. He was holding a shotgun and started to turn his body so he could see over the car's hood.

"From what?" she asked exasperatedly.

An inhuman screech had her covering her ears and again, something flew over the car, too quickly for the young teacher to decipher what it was.

"There you are, you sonofabitch!" He yelled as he pumped his shotgun and took aim at the floating ball of white light.

"What are you doing? What is that thing?"

The boy cocked a devilish grin at her and shrugged a shoulder. "Oh you know. Just your friendly neighbourhood Casper." Something grabbed at his ankles and the kid had a few seconds to spit out a panicked "oh shit" before he was dragged away, clawing at the ground and desperately reaching for the shotgun that had fallen out of his hands. Then he was flying, pinwheeling through the air and slamming back-first into a giant oak tree. He slumped down the base of the tree and didn't move.

"Dean!" Another voice called out. Julie Higgins searched for the voice, crawling around on shaky legs until she spied the source standing on the other side of her car.

"Sam?" she whispered in disbelief.

The boy turned his eyes on her and mirrored the same face she was making at him. "Ms. Higgins?" They had a few seconds to gape at each other in horror until the inhuman wailing started again. Julie dropped to the ground and covered her head as she screamed with it.

Sam was over the hood of the car in an instant and with a forceful hand he gripped his stunned teacher by the bicep and started dragging her away from the car. The two scurried along the ground like crabs, and with one hand clasped firmly on his teacher and the other holding his shotgun, it wasn't long until Sam could feel the burn in his thighs from taking the brunt of the speedy crawl.

They reached the limp body of Dean and Sam put down the shotgun to place both hands gently on his brother's face. "Hey, Dean. Come on man, wake up," Sam lightly tried to rouse him.

With a pained groan, Dean started to come around but his unfocused eyes filled Sam with concern. "Ohmigod dude, that sucked," Dean moaned. He was struggling to sit up and Sam helped him to lean against the base of the tree. "My back," Dean gasped.

"Don't worry; you don't really need it," Sam joked.

Dean rolled his eyes and stopped when he spotted the teacher kneeling beside him and watching the cemetery with wide, watery eyes. "Who's she?" Dean asked.

"My teacher," Sam said absently while he fiddled with his rock-salt shells.

Dean eyed her again with a new appreciation of sorts. "Damn Sammy. Now I get why you like that prissy-assed English class so much."

The woman was ignoring both of them. "What is it?" She whispered.

Sam followed her gaze and looked around the cemetery. "It's the spirit of a man who went on a killing spree back in the 1800's and then was hung for it. I don't think he was mentally stable," Sam surmised.

"But he sure as hell worked out," Dean commented as he felt his lower back and cringed.

"Dean! Sam!" The boys popped their heads up in unison as they heard their names being barked out from across the cemetery.

"Over here!" Sam hollered back.

John came loping over and stopped breathlessly when he came to the boys. "Did you find the grave yet?" He asked Sam.

Sam nodded and pointed back the way John had come from. "Over there."

John grunted and then squinted at Dean's slumped form. "What the hell happened to you?"

Dean tried to shrug and winced in pain because of it. "Damn ghost gave me a lesson in gravity."

Shaking his head, John turned his attention to the woman still cowering on the ground. "Who the hell is she?"

"That," Dean announced with a grin, "is Sam's teacher. Now don't you wish you had gone to Parent-Teacher Interviews, dad?"

John rolled his eyes and offered a hand to Dean. Dean grasped it and let out a low growl as he was hoisted up off the ground. He bent over at the waist and rested his hands on his knees. John placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You alright?"

Dean held up a hand and waved off any concern as he tried to gain his breath back. "Just give me a minute," he croaked. John gave his back a quick pat before looking at Sam. "Go grab the shovels Sam. We got some digging to do."

* * *

The Impala was parked at the edge of the cemetery and lurching off the side of the main road. Ms. Higgins' car was only a few yards away through the thicket of trees and hedges. Sam led her back to her car first, standing watch while she opened the door with fumbling hands. Before she sat down, she paused and studied Sam.

"What about you?"

Sam seemed surprised by the question as he spun around with wide eyes. "I've got to go get the shovels."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I heard that part. But you're not going back there, are you?"

Sam's face scrunched up with bewilderment. "Well…yeah. We kind of have to finish this thing now."

She shook her head. "Sam, I worry about you," she said with a sad chuckle.

"Don't," Sam instructed as he held the door open while she sat down in the driver's seat. "Just go home and be safe."

She sighed loudly as she jammed the keys into the ignition. "That's supposed to be my line to you."

Sam smiled as he shut the door and waited on the road until her car was out of sight. Satisfied, he ran to the Impala to grab the shovels out of the trunk.

* * *

Unexpectedly, even to her, she stopped in the middle of the road. She gripped the wheel tightly and ground her teeth as she weighed her options. '_Take the easy way out or do the right thing_,' she thought grimly. She slammed her hands on the wheel in fearful resignation and then pulled a u-turn. In her heart, she knew that she would never be able to forgive herself if something had happened to her prized student while she just drove away.

She parked the car beside the black Impala and nervously crept across the gravel parking lot and onto the soft, slightly mushy grass of the cemetery. She darted in and out of trees, peering around one before making a beeline for the next. She spied a light in the distance and began to crawl towards it, hiding behind tombstones and keeping a vigilant eye on the sky above her for any flying objects or incorporeal beings. She heard the sluicing cut of shovels being jammed into dirt and low murmur of someone's voice. Poking her head around the statue of a mournful angel, she spotted John standing above a grave with his hands grasping a sawed-off shotgun while the two boys quickly dug out the ground beneath them. Considering that it was just the two of them, they were making incredible headway. Sam's head bobbed up as he stopped to catch his breath, wiping the sweat above his brow away with his shirtsleeve. Heaving a few large breaths in, he went back to being doubled-over, throwing shovels of dirt behind his shoulder. His brother was groaning as he dug and she absently reminded herself that he had made a nasty introduction to a large tree earlier.

"Hurry it up boys; here he comes!" John announced as he pumped the shotgun.

Dirt began flying out the pit at a ridiculous pace.

She strained her eyes to see where John was looking, hoping to get a good look at the thing that was causing so much trouble. She let out a soft gasp when she finally spied the ghost, and this time rather than an unformed ball of white light, she saw a vividly clear image of a man, dressed in dated clothes with gruesome looking bruises around his neck. He was stalking towards John confidently, with a devious looking grin on his face.

"You an' your boys are becoming a real nuisance 'round these parts," the ghost rasped.

John grunted. "Look who's talking," he retorted.

The ghost grinned maliciously at John, pausing in his footsteps to take a quick cursory glance at the boys who eyed him warily from the confines of the grave. "Gotta say, I don't particularly appreciate you disturbin' my bed o' roses."

John shrugged. "Just maintaining the grounds, is all. And taking out the trash." He pumped his shotgun and fired, but the ghost had dissipated seconds before the small pellets of rock salt could penetrate. He reappeared behind John, and while Dean was opening his mouth to shout a warning, the ghost grabbed John by the scruff of his shirt and tossed him easily over his shoulder. John landed with an audible 'oomph'.

"Sammy, keep digging!" Dean commanded as he scrambled out of the grave. He held what looked to Julie like a long, skinny piece of metal. He swung it at the ghost's midsection, but only found empty space when the spirit managed to side-step Dean.

Sammy was sweating profusely while he furiously hacked at the ground with his shovel. Dean was swinging wildly and missing every time. The ghost was in a fit of cackling laughter at Dean's futile efforts. Rolling his eyes, Dean finally gave up. "Screw it," he muttered. He threw the iron bar to the ground and reached in his coat pocket for his revolver. Without warning he shot at the ghost and hit his target. The ghost looked confused for a second, before his figure shimmered and disappeared entirely with a poof.

"That's not gonna hold him off for long," Dean grumbled. "Sammy, you hit pay dirt yet?"

There were two heavy clunks as Sam whacked his shovel against something hard. He looked up at Dean with a grin. "Oh yeah."

Dean grinned back and hopped down into the hole with his brother. Together and with bare hands, they began to claw at the aged and rotted wood that was the ghost's meagre coffin. Straining until his face went red and his eyes bulged, Sam managed to rip off a long chunk of wood. He tossed it out of the grave and heard a startled swear.

John poked his head into the grave. "Just about got me there kiddo."

"Sorry," Sam said sheepishly.

John looked approvingly down at the torn and ransacked coffin. He tossed a brown burlap sack filled with salt, which Sam caught with ease. He took a handful and passed the bag to Dean who did the same. They sprinkled the bones and the coffin with salt, brushing their hands off on their jeans afterwards. John reached into the grave and pulled Dean out with a grunt. He did the same for Sam. Once everyone was out of the grave, Dean squirted lighter fluid onto the coffin.

* * *

She found that she couldn't tear her eyes away, despite the urgent pounding of her heart against her breastbone, begging her to leave. She was terrified, not just of the ghost but for her pupil's welfare. She wanted to run to him, to drag him out of the grave and throw him into her car and leave this place, but her shaky legs would not obey. Instead she crouched and watched, covering her mouth at times so she wouldn't scream and give away her location.

"Enjoyin' the show?"

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end and trembles began to wrack her entire frame. In slow and dreadful anticipation, she turned her head and saw exactly what she expected to see behind her.

The ghost was smiling down at her. "Well, aren't you a pretty little thing?"

Tears began to run down her face as time seemed to stop. Too terrified to run or scream, she was frozen in her hiding place and did nothing while the ghost reached a mottled grey hand down to her.

* * *

Sam stared at the match for a second before throwing it onto the grave. After a few seconds, the fire caught and flames licked the edges of the grave. Sam and his family stared in stony silence.

"Shame he wasn't here to watch it with us," Dean commented.

Sam gave him an exasperated look, which Dean was used to. John grunted and continued to watch the fire.

* * *

He was about to touch her face when he suddenly straightened. His face contorted in pain and he stared at his hands as if bewildered by them. Then he started to burn from the inside, and he managed to let out a hoarse scream before his entire body was engulfed in flames. It only lasted for a second, and then he was gone and it was just her staring at an empty skyline at night, crying and panting in fear.

She didn't sleep that night and seriously considered calling in sick the next day. The paleness of her face and the dark circles under her eyes emphasized the thought, but she went anyway. One of her colleagues stopped her in the hallway, catching her by the elbow and spinning her around.

"Julie," the older woman said with some surprise. "Are you okay? You look terrible!" she exclaimed.

Belatedly, Julie realized that she didn't spend much time on her hair or make-up that morning. She was also now realizing that her purple top wasn't exactly a perfect match with her red skirt. "Oh...yeah. I didn't really sleep all that much last night," she managed to stammer.

The other teacher assessed her up and down before finally releasing her elbow. "Well, you look like you've seen a ghost my dear. I know; the Friday before a long weekend can be tough," she said emphatically.

The bell rang, giving Julie a much-desired break from the awkward conversation. The older teacher made a clicking noise with her mouth before shrugging and heading off to her first class with a back-handed wave at the younger woman.

* * *

She had waited much longer than she should have to start the class, but she was hoping beyond all hope that maybe he was just late today. When one of the annoyingly bright girls lectured her on the start time for the class, she finally snapped out of her reprieve and began to numbly write on the board.

As the students read, doodled or slept quietly for the rest of the class, she sat and stared at his empty seat, wondering where he was heading to at that moment, what he would be hunting, and when, or if, it would ever end for him.

**THE END**


End file.
